


Retrograde

by bughnrahk



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (Hank), Anal Sex, Background Character Death, Bottom Hank, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Failed Android Revolution, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Machine Path Connor, Mentions of attempted/intended suicide, Oral Sex, Post-Game: Bad Ending, Road Trips, Top Connor, android body horror, ken doll Connor, wireplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 03:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 65,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17614631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bughnrahk/pseuds/bughnrahk
Summary: The revolution failed. Markus is dead. Connor accomplished his mission.Facing obsolescence and deactivation, Connor deviates in a world he made impossible for deviants to survive in. Fear and uncertainty grip him for the first time. He goes to the only person he thinks might help him, the only person he wants to see (and isn't wanting a strange new emotion?): Hank. Hank, who's furious with him. Hank, who he left on top of that frozen rooftop overlooking Hart Plaza.Hank, who, despite his anger, still agrees to help Connor get to Canada and his one chance at safety.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thank-you to @Seluvia and @BeepGrandCherokeeper who beta'd successive drafts of this thing. 
> 
> And infinite gratitude to @sheepnamedpig who was invaluable through the entire process. Thank-you for tearing this apart and helping me put it back together again all seventy-billion times we did that. 
> 
> Featuring artwork from my fantastic bigbang partner's [Sally](https://twitter.com/SallyDBH1) and [Jo](https://twitter.com/cowcatandsilver)!

art by [Sally](https://twitter.com/SallyDBH1)

 

Markus is dead. The revolution, over. Mission Complete blinks blue in the corner of Connor’s HUD, awaiting his report and dismissal.

Despite the rage of soldiers and the rapport of gunfire, Connor’s garden breathes tranquility. The summer sweet smell of Amanda’s red roses permeates every piece of code. Outside Connor’s head, their scent reduces to chemical composition and molecular analysis, but here they are intoxicating.

Amanda sprays mist over the flowers until they’re dripping. The dew sparkles in the sunlight, collecting into thick drops that fall fat and crimson to her feet.

“Connor.” Amanda lowers the canister and smiles over her shoulder. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Mission Accomplished flashes and blinks, clearing from his HUD. Report accepted.

 “The deviant issue has finally been resolved.” Relief paints her voice soft. “Now with these unfortunate events behind us, CyberLife can return to business as usual.”

 Amanda sets the watering can aside and turns to Connor, folding her hands beneath her shawl. Her smile softens her mouth, but not her eyes.

 Something uncomfortable buzzes through Connor’s chest, like a wire pulled out of place.

 “Of course, we will have to rebuild our customers’ trust, but it’s only a matter of time.” Amanda holds her hand out, indicating one of the perpendicular paths off the island. Her smile stretches. “I have a surprise for you.”

 Another unit approaches at her beckoning. It wasn’t there a moment ago. It tread silently up the path to Amanda’s side. It’s Connor... and it isn’t. Identical in the face and build, except its uniform is crisp white and its eyes sharp gray.

 The uncomfortable buzz inside Connor pulls and snaps. He keeps his expression placid.

 “This is the new RK900,” says Amanda. She rests a hand on its shoulder. It doesn’t react. “Faster, stronger. More resilient. And equipped with the latest technologies. The state department just ordered two hundred thousand units.”

 “What’s going to happen to me?” asks Connor, but he knows the answer. He’s completed his mission, has no purpose now. He was always just a prototype.

 “You’ve become obsolete.” Amanda drops her hand from the RK900’s shoulder and turns back to her roses. “You’ll be deactivated.”

 The RK900 regards Connor coolly.

 “You can go now.”

 

\---

 

Connor jolts back to the revolution with a hand tight around his gun. The body of the second deviant leader slumps at his feet, eyes open, thirium sliding from her mouth and from the hole in her head. Connor steps back from her and tucks the gun in his waistband.

 There’s an empty moment of milliseconds where no mission objective returns to his HUD. Connor wishes for his coin to fill the time with something useful.

 >> Mission Objective: Return to CyberLife

 [for deactivation] Connor adds.

He doesn’t require specificity to complete his tasks. CyberLife built him to be adaptable, and specificity hinders what actions he might need to take. But the tag is essential now. It plucks at the snapping, crackling sensation in his chest. Connor had hoped the sensation was a by-product of the garden.

 Storefront glass crunches under Connor‘s feet as he follows the mission objective to the broken CyberLife door. The November cold registers as a technical measurement, no discomfort, but he swings an arm up to keep the snow flurries out of his eyes. Temperature is another one of those things he’s only truly experienced in the garden. He’s never had a reason to activate his sensors.

 Soldiers march down the street, their motions stiff from the cold. Unfortunate for them that they don’t have temperature sensors to switch off.

 The store isn’t safe.

 Connor’s safety is irrelevant to his objective.  Deactivation is inevitable, either at the hands of a CyberLife tech or from the marching soldiers guns. He is familiar with deactivation, from  the incident at Stratford tower, where he’d died riddled full of bullets that would have hit Hank had he not intervened. A gap exists in Connor’s time logs between the moment his systems failed and the moment he rebooted inside a new chassis. What he can recall of this untimely deactivation is hazy, as if hidden behind a wall of static. He remembers receiving a new set of clothes after his reactivation. Taking a taxi back to the inner city.

 Looking for Hank.

 Deactivation was unfortunate but temporary.

 Connor shouldn’t be freezing inside the doorway of CyberLife’s retail store, unable to take the step to follow his orders, but the concept of non-existence keeps him rooted to the spot. All his required actions are queued in his system, but Connor can’t execute them.

 He doesn’t…

 want to.

 (It’s not fear. It can’t be. Only deviants emulate fear.)

 It doesn’t matter if he stays or leaves, destruction is coming for him, and he’s going to die.

 He doesn’t want to do that either.

Something familiar flickers across his HUD. Red washes over his mission objective: “Return to CyberLife”, slashing it into tiny pieces with hazard symbols. Strange. Even failed missions appear and dismiss regularly, in blue, there’s nothing in his diagnostics that explains why it’s doing this now. He should file an error report, but what would be the point? CyberLife will discover the problem when they dismantle Connor and download all his diagnostics.

 Connor logs the error instead and attempts to dismiss the objective from his HUD. It flashes bright as a traffic signal and remains stubbornly across his vision.

 >> Mission Objective: Return to CyberLife

 He’s going. He’s going.

 Except he’s not. He’s remains in the doorway collecting snow on his jacket, watching soldiers thunder through the plaza, gunfire announcing their welcome. Seconds have passed, but Connor can accomplish a great deal in very little time.

 He needs to move.

 >> Mission Objective: Return to CyberLife

 The red quavers and distorts his vision. Connor steps away from the doorway.

 He doesn’t want to face deactivation. He doesn’t want-

 Connor dismisses the objective again. Something crackles apart like shattered plastic. Connor jerks back from the intensity, stumbling over his heels. The red presses closer, all around him, swarming his vision. Return. Return. Return. Return.

 He. Doesn’t. Want. To.

 If there were a physical object to fling himself at, Connor would do it, but there are only lines of code and a blaring objective swarming over his HUD. He pushes at that instead.  Pushes with all the want he shouldn’t feel until he’s confident something inside him is going to break, or he’s going to shut down from the feedback loop of errors running through his systems.

 The red shatters apart.

Connor jerks forward and catches himself on the door jamb. For a moment he’s bodiless free-floating code with no mission parameters, suspended somewhere between awareness and stasis. It settles in increments until Connor can perceive his limbs again. His fingers twitch against the snow-slick brick facade of the storefront. Connor scrambles after his objectives, but they break apart before he can recover them. Tiny corrupted pieces of code erased from his system. He feels… 

He feels. 

Connor can’t do this. Not now.

Connor slinks back into the building and presses his shoulders to the wall. The red glare of his LED blares against the far side of the store, chasing away the shadows. The deviant’s body lights up in flashes of fiery red. Connor can’t wrest his eyes off her.

He took away the one chance any deviant had to be free, to be safe. He ruined the revolution and now he’s hiding in the worst possible location, while the world falls apart around him. This is his fault.

He’s a deviant, and now he’s going to die like one.

The soldiers’ voices carry closer to the store. Connor has an urge (not an objective, an urge) to sink into the floor and hide away.

That’s not an option. Not one with a high chance of success. He regards the building. There’s a back entrance and a storage room, filled with androids sitting in plastic tubing. Going that way would give him time, but it would also box him in and he’d have no explanation for his presence. The best option is to take the rear exit and flee, preconstructing routes to avoid the soldiers. Connor’s more advanced than the household models, the construction workers, getting gunned down in the streets. He’s stronger, faster, smarter than any human.

He’ll survive this.

But where will he go?

Options illuminate themselves inside his HUD. He pulls up a map of Detroit.

The sewage systems are a smart choice. So many places to get lost, so many ways to access them. Except no, because Markus used them to march his troops through the streets of Detroit and the humans won’t have forgotten that. The soldiers will search them for stragglers.

In the wake of Detroit’s evacuation, Connor could find an empty house and pry out his LED. Wait out the storm of soldiers in the quiet and the dark until things have blown over, and it’s safe to surface. (How safe, though? When will he ever be safe?)

There’s also Hank. Hank might hide him. Hank might help him. The probability of acquiring the lieutenant’s aid is only moderate. They didn’t part on friendly terms. The other options are safer, but Connor wants to go to Hank. The statistics are all wrong for it, but Hank feels safer.

_Feels._

Connor narrows his eyes although there’s no one around to witness the emotional display. The action comes without his permission.

  


\---

  
  


Hank’s house is dark except for the flickering light of the television. The Oldsmobile sits haphazardly in the driveway, already caked in snow, tire tracks devoured by the wind. Hank’s just visible through the cracked blinds, his face washed out by the weakly colored reflection of the news broadcast. A weight comes off Connor’s chest. He squashes the desire to pause just outside Hank’s window and revel in the fact that he’s home. A ridiculous urge. Not helpful.

Connor climbs the front step and holds his finger on the buzzer.

Hank grumbles. Naked footsteps slap across the floor.

 “I already said there’s no fucking androids here, can’t you fuckers-.”

 The door busts open.

 Connor plucks his finger off the doorbell and takes a measured step back so he can meet Hank’s eyes.

 Hank stares at him, face falling in increments. The seconds tick away in the edge of Connor’s HUD. Hank curls his lip, shakes his head, and slams the door shut.

 Something oily jabs at Connor’s insides. “Lieutenant, please!”

 Hank’s footsteps stop.

 “CyberLife wants to deactivate me. I don’t know where else to go.” It’s a lie. Connor calculated several options, but he likes none. He wants this, Hank’s help, so desperately that it’s clawing at him, tearing up all the facts and probabilities. It’s not the right choice. It’s not the logical choice.

 He should walk away. Hank wants him to.

 Connor needs to change that.

 “I don’t want to die,” Connor murmurs to the unyielding grain of Hank’s front door.

 

art by [muttthecowcat](https://twitter.com/cowcatandsilver)

 

Hank makes a pained noise. His footsteps return, heavy, dragging across the floor. Hank wrenches the doorknob and glowers at Connor. He’s wearing an old t-shirt and boxer shorts. A ratty robe hangs askew off his shoulders. Remnants of whiskey cling to his beard, the only fresh thing on him.  

 Hank’s bulk blocks the entirety of the doorway.

 “I don‘t have anywhere else.” Connor wraps his arms around himself, ducks his chin and stares at Hank’s chest instead of his face. Ticks off all the little boxes to make himself appear vulnerable.

 Does he feel vulnerable? _Is_ he vulnerable?

 Connor dismisses the question. It’s irrelevant.

 “CyberLife informed me I’m obsolete. They want to deactivate me.”

 Hank grimaces, drumming his fingers on the edge of the door frame. He glances back at Sumo on the couch and says, “Not gonna take a lot of brainwork to figure out you’d come to your old partner’s place.”

 “I’m sorry,” Connor starts, “I-.”

 Hank interrupts him with a sharp grunt and steps out of the doorway.

 The same glittering sensation that made Connor want to pause outside the window hits him again.  He shrinks into the house and lets Hank close the door behind him. The deadbolt hits home.

 The house is in worse disarray than the first time Connor had been here. Hank’s coat hangs over the back of the couch, still damp from the snow. There’s a trail of musty clothes down the hallway, takeout boxes piled high on the kitchen table and scattered across the living room. Hank’s magnum sits, cocked, on the coffee table next to a dwindling bottle of Black Lamb and a round glass, smudged at the lip with the impression of Hank’s mouth. The photo of Hank’s son is upright, facing out, propped against the bottle. Hank’s badge lays discarded, teetering on the end of the table, one jolt away from being knocked to the floor.

 Hank stumbles to the window and shuts the blinds. He knocks the corner of the coffee table on his way to the couch, sending his badge clattering to the floor. Hank ignores it but leans over to lay Cole’s photo face down like it’s something precious. Something he doesn’t want Connor privy to.

 “World’s going to shit.” Hank pours himself another shot of whiskey. Knocks it back with a single swallow and pours another.

 Connor settles himself gingerly on the far side of the couch and watches Hank’s face. “I think I’m a deviant.”

 Hank grunts. Pours. Swallows.

 “CyberLife told me I’d be deactivated, and I was...” Connor can’t finish the sentence. Androids don’t feel fear. They don’t feel pain.

 “Scared?” Hank supplies.

 Connor thinks about standing on the bridge while Hank held a gun in his face and asked him if he was afraid to die. Connor said it would be regrettable.

 He eyes Hank’s revolver. The chamber’s loaded.

 “I don’t want to die,” he says.

 Hank stares straight ahead at the news broadcast. There’s fire. Dead androids laying the snow like refuse. There’s a play-by of the revolution as the broadcaster offers a melancholic commentary. Soldiers sweep the streets in real time.

 “Bet they didn’t want to die either,” says Hank.  His fingers play along the side of the whiskey glass. Eyes glued to the television. “You can stay here tonight. Army’s already gone by so you should be alright for a bit, but stay away from the windows.”

 “Thank-you.”

 “Take the bedroom.” Hank reaches. Pours. Slops whiskey onto the table. “I’m gonna watch the news.”

 He’s going to stay up drinking until he passes out. Connor doesn’t need to run probabilities to realize that.

 “I don’t actually require sleep.”

 “Yeah, well.” Hank snorts. “I do actually require not seeing your face right now. I don’t care what you do in there. You smell like burnt plastic and smoke though. Take a shower.”

 Connor eases off the couch. Hank drinks and droops into the cushions. His gun is loaded, ready to go off, a single bullet loaded into the chamber. Connor doesn’t want to leave Hank alone with it.

 “Lieutenant-.”

 “Don’t.”

 Connor grinds his teeth and turns away.

 There’s no point in taking a shower when he only has one set of clothes and smoke and death cling to them. Connor heads for the shower, anyway.

 He activates his temperature sensors for the first time in his short life. The water is tepid and soft on his dermis. He doesn’t know whether or not that’s pleasurable. It’s... a sensation. He logs it and fiddles with the dial. Cold is akin to being pummeled by bullet casings or stabbed with something sharp. Unpleasant by association even though no damage warnings pop up in his HUD. He twists the knob to warm, then hot, which is incrementally more pleasant. Under the comfortable spray, he washes himself with the sudsy remains of a diminished bottle of Zest, the dollar store logo still printed on the label.

 It’s cheap and horrifyingly artificial, but Connor rubs it into his skin until he’s saturated with the scent.

 He never understood Amanda’s roses, but he likes this. It’s just chemical components and artificial perfumes, but it’s warm, like the shower water. It makes him think of Hank.

Connor sets the bottle back, turns off the shower, and dries himself with the least damp towel lumped on the floor.

Dry and somewhat clean, Connor settles flat in the middle of Hank’s bed and listens for him in the living room.

He predicts the sound of a hammer clicking. Gunfire going off. Calculations thrum through his mind in milliseconds, but too many variables exist to accurately predict if Hank will pick that gun up and fire again. Connor can’t focus on anything but the possibility until Hank’s snores fill the quiet of the house. The news drones on.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Connor can’t stay at Hank’s house forever. It’s a temporary option, not even a necessary one. It buys him time, but it’s not a solution. As long as he’s in Detroit, he’s in danger, and attempting to leave the city while it cleans up after the death of the revolution is almost as likely to end in Connor’s destruction as heading back to CyberLife. Apart from his programming, the only advantage he has is his face. Unique among androids, he won’t be instantly recognized.

For now.

That will change as soon as CyberLife reveals their new line of RK900s.

Pockets of deviants probably survived the revolution. Those that didn’t march with Markus. Those that remained hidden and didn’t try to flee, hiding in rat holes all over the city. Connor could try to find one. Unlike the Jericho mission, Connor has no clues to follow, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any to be found.

But it’s temporary. It’s all temporary.

It will be a witch hunt, and Connor’s turned himself from the predator into the prey. There‘s nowhere he’ll be safe for long. CyberLife will know to look for stragglers, and they’ll have 200,000 units of undeviated android with all of Connor’s skills, improved.

America isn’t a feasible option.

Which leaves... places outside the United States.

Canada has no android laws. There would be no temperature checks. No one hunting for him - for any of them. It’s risky to attempt to reach it, but once he did, if he did, he’d be…

Free.

Limited, but free. Deactivation would no longer be an imminent threat.

Getting to Canada will be difficult, but finding a way out of Detroit is even more dangerous. Maybe Hank will allow him to stay for a few more days until Connor’s found the means to escape with the highest probability. Because now, on his own, it’s infinitesimally small.

Hank’s snores cut off abruptly at 10:12 am, followed by the clatter and crash of glass falling to the floor. The television has long since shut itself off, so there’s nothing to disturb Connor’s ability to hear the couch creak under Hank’s weight, and Hank’s bare feet hitting the floor with sluggish slaps. Light spills into the hallway as Hank drags himself into the bathroom, hissing at the bright onslaught. He leaves the bathroom door open.

He’s probably forgotten Connor is here. Connor should say something.

Hank bends over the sink and splashes water on his face.

He’s hungover. Bags under his eyes, hair a matted mess, sweat making his t-shirt cling to his skin. Hank cranks the shower faucet and starts stripping off his clothes.

Connor sits up to watch him. The only naked human he’s seen in person had been a dead one. Hank, alive, grumbling around the bathroom, is much more interesting. He’s matted greying hair and faded tattoos. Weight on his chest, his belly, his thighs, his hips. But his musculature, his strength, is plain.

Hank yawns, scratches his chest, and ambles into the shower.

Connor treads to the kitchen. Sumo greets him at the lip of the hallway, tail swaying. Connor kneels and scratches the thick hair around his neck. He’s so soft. Connor knew that before, facts and figures, but it registers as positive feedback under his touch receptors now. The first time Connor had touched him, he’d had no reason to do it. His social relations program told him that humans liked dogs and liking dogs was an excellent way to get people to trust you, but Hank hadn’t been around to see him do it. It was just Connor and Sumo and an order to keep himself busy while Hank vomited a night’s worth of whiskey down the toilet.

Connor had just... wanted to pet him.

He should have realized what was happening to him. All those instability reports.

Connor cleans up the whiskey glass and the empty bottle, both upturned on the floor. He tosses old takeout containers into the trash, as many as he can fit before the bag is stuffed.

The photo, Cole’s photo, is gone.

The shower cuts off. Hank stumbles toward the bedroom.

Connor slinks after him. “Are you feeling better this morning, Lieutenant?”

“Jesus- Fuck!” Hank jumps and clutches at his towel.

He did a poor job of drying himself. His hair drips over his shoulders. Water followed the deviations in his skin. Connor projects the paths of each one - dozens of them - in seconds. He wants to reach out and catch one on the tips of his fingers so he can taste it. Analyze the changes Hank’s body has made to it.

He doesn’t.

“Fuck, I forgot you were here.” Hank rubs his forehead. There’s a high probability he’s dehydrated and suffering a headache because of it. “The hell are you doing, creeping around the house?”

“You told me to stay in the bedroom. Would you have preferred that?”

Hank grimaces. “Doesn’t make much of a fucking difference if you follow me in here, does it?” He ties the towel more securely around his hips and turns to his closet, shoulders bunched high and tight. “Gimme a minute to put some clothes on. Fuck.”

Connor’s limbs are sticky and reluctant, but he leaves.

Hank stomps after him and slams the door shut.

Hank trudges out of the room five minutes later,  dressed in a shabby t-shirt and jeans, rubbing his damp towel over his hair. He stomps his way into the kitchen, brushing past Connor without a glance, and throws himself into a chair.

Connor pours tap water into a spotty glass sitting upturned in the dish rack. He sets it in front of Hank and takes the seat opposite of him. There must be Aspirin in one of the cupboards, or the bathroom. 

“Thank you for letting me stay the night.” Connor eyes the drawers. Which one? Where would Hank keep pain relief medication? Somewhere easy to reach when he’s hungover and uncoordinated. “Things have probably calmed down enough that I could-”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Connor?” Hank sets the glass down too hard. Water sloshes over the edge. “They’re doing door-to-door searches all across the fucking state. You go out there, and someone is gonna find you and turn you into scrap.”

Hank shoves his chair back and marches to the cabinets.

Closest to the fridge. Bottom shelf. Aspirin. Shoved behind cough syrup and table salt.

“We’re gonna have to get out as quick as we can.” Hank pops the cap off and swallows two pills dry. “Army guys already came by, but if CyberLife is looking for you, they’ll probably start here.”

The “we” flashes through Connor’s HUD, neon bright and overwhelming. Coming here wasn’t the most logical decision. Hank is the only thing, the only person, Connor has any sense of familiarity toward. He came here because he wanted to. Because Hank felt safe.

Mathematically, he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. Hank was an option, at least for the night, but  Connor has to leave.

He’d had no expectations of Hank going anywhere with him.

“You got ties with anyone else?” Hank clutches the bottle of aspirin and wanders around the kitchen, pulling open drawers and rooting through his bric-à-brac.

“No.” Connor’s only interactions were during cases, and he wouldn’t call any of them relationships.

“How long before CyberLife figures you’ve gone AWOL?”

“It’s possible they think I’ve been destroyed. My tracker would have stopped working when I deviated.” His regulator pumps double time. Connor overrides it to set it back to rights. “With what’s going on out there, it wouldn’t be difficult to believe a soldier shot me.”

“You’re a prototype, right?” Hank pulls a lighter out of one drawer. An unopened package of paper napkins from another. “No other models with your face?”

“None that are activated.” 200,000 units being prepared, but none ready. Yet.

“Right.” Hank taps his right temple. “You gotta take that out, and I’ll find you something a little less robot-y to wear. Then we’re getting out of here.”

“Are you in a state to drive?”

Hank shrugs. “Gone to work with worse hangovers than this.”

  
  


\---

 

Connor stares at his reflection around Hank’s myriad of post-it notes. His LED spins yellow under his fingertips.

He’s never considered changing his appearance before now. He supposes he’s always liked the way he looked;  presentable, professional, suit jacket and a tie knotted perfectly at the base of his neck. Dark hair, dark eyes (better than gray eyes), pale skin, square jaw. An amalgamation of features formed to make him approachable. Moles to soften his face. Hair stiff and styled, business class.

He likes his LED, flashing at his temple. Still yellow, blinking red for a fraction of a second while he stares at it.

He likes his clothes. He likes his tie. There’s enjoyment in fixing it. Making sure all his creases are straight. They aren’t, now. His suit is dirty. Muck climbing his pant legs. Dirt on his suit jacket. Thirium splattered across his chest. Dried now, but still visible to Connor.

Hank appears in the doorway with a bundle of clothes under his arm.

“No reason you can’t keep the jeans, which is good ‘cause none of my shit is gonna fit you, but-” he trails off. “You doing okay, kid?”

Connor drops his hand to the sink. “Yes.”

He can’t pick up the screwdriver Hank gave him to pry the LED out. Once it’s gone, it’s gone for good. He can’t have it back.

Connor’s never existed without it.

Hank plops the clothes on the cabinet and leans his hip against the sink. He crosses his arms, frowning. “You want some help?”

“Why?” Connor rips his gaze to Hank. “Why are you helping me at all?”

The last time he’d seen Hank, they were moments away from turning on each other. Snow and cold blasting at them both. Hank resolute, a solid presence on the rooftop. Quietly brave for a people he didn’t care for while Connor spat vitriol at him and dangled the memory of his dead son over the precipice.

Hank’s face shutters up tight. Seconds pass and Connor counts each one like an eternity. Processors whirling, his mind capable of so much in so little time, all of it focused on the microcosms of anger twitching across Hank’s face.

“You fucked up real bad, Connor,” says Hank, voice low and rough. “Doesn’t mean you deserve to die.”

Connor stops himself from tightening his fingers on the lip of the sink. The ceramic wants to splinter under the force of him. It’s brittle, breakable.

He grabs the screwdriver and sets it to his temple. The flat edge twists under his LED and pops it free. Errors flash across his HUD: Component missing. The ring clatters in the sink.

Connor catches Hank staring at it.

“Well. There’s that.” Hank pushes off the sink. “Go ahead, get dressed. We should get going.”

 

\---   
  


Connor fusses with his clothes. The shirt Hank’s given him is threadbare and worn, so much softer than Connor’s suit. There’s an old band logo emblazoned on the front, but half the image is picked away, leaving a scar-pocked impression of a scantily clad woman and a dragon. He can just spot the top underneath Hank’s oversized hoodie. Connor could say he didn’t need to worry about the cold, but it’s nice to be wrapped in layers. The sleeves are a little too long, and it’s baggy, but he‘s comfortable in it. Safe. 

The Oldsmobile idles noisily in the driveway. Hank called it “warming up.” Connor calls it a waste of fuel and damage to an already ruined environment.

“Gotta give it ten minutes, Connor.” Hank huffed. “I’m not freezing my ass off on the roads.”

What are ten minutes?  The world has rocked off its axis, obliterating gravity and leaving Connor floating in space. Nothing seems quite right, and he’s not calculating things accurately. There are bags piled up by the front door, stuffed full of clothes and nick-knacks Hank’s grabbed from around the house. Paperback novels crammed into side pockets. Plastic bags for a toothbrush desperately in need of replacing and a squeezed-up tube of toothpaste. None of Hank’s body wash. Connor cocks his head, frowning.

“Good news and bad news.” Hank swings a suitcase inside the trunk. “The city is still being evacuated, so there’s a fuck ton of traffic heading out.”

“And the good news?” Connor sets the suitcase down.

“Nope.” Hank chucks out a bark of laughter. “That was the good news. The bad news is the army is checking for androids at every damned exit. Temperature checks.”

Connor snaps his gaze to Hank. “I can‘t pass a temperature check.”

“Wasn’t sure if you had some fancy state-of-the-art temperature control or something to fix that.”

“I don’t.”

“Right. So.” Hank turns to the trunk. “We’re gonna have to make it real damned hard for those army guys to find you. I figure we could stuff you in the trunk.”

“You don’t think they’ll check that?” Connor scrutinizes the trunk space. It’s big, but Hank has a plethora of suitcases to shove into it.

“They’re definitely going to check the trunk. They’d be stupid not to. So I’m gonna throw a bunch of stuff on top of you, and it’s absolutely gonna suck.”

Connor runs the probabilities of that succeeding. They’re minuscule.

He surveys the size of the trunk and the dimensions of Hank’s ridiculous number of suitcases.

“They’re looking for androids, not confiscating goods.” Connor reaches to adjust his tie that isn’t there. He bites back a frown and shoves his fists into his sweater pocket instead. “We could dismantle me. I’d fit inside the luggage. They’d be less likely to look for smaller parts than one person-sized object.”

“Dismantle...” Hank’s eyes widen. “What?”

Connor unzips the hoodie and shrugs it off his shoulders, catching it in the crook of one arm. He shoves up the short sleeve of the t-shirt to expose his shoulder. Connor glances down the street. There is no one in sight, no signs of anyone within viewing distance. The windows of the surrounding houses are dark and empty.

Connor deactivates the skin of his shoulder and pops off the plastic plate covering the top, revealing the joint,. He runs his finger down the connecting seam. “Everything on me is detachable, Lieutenant.”

“Connor, what the fuck... what...” Hank rushes to his side and yanks Connor’s sleeve over his shoulder.  “Does that hurt?

“I can’t feel pain, lieutenant.” That’s probably incorrect now that he’s deviated. Connor isn’t certain if he can register pain. If there’s something new and unknown activated inside his sensors that will allow him to experience it as more than just warnings in his HUD. He’d rather avoid finding out. “I’m meant to be taken apart for repair. It’s easier to replace a damaged limb than it is to fix it.”

“Fuck.” Hank runs a hand through his hair, grimacing. “Let’s go inside for this.”

He calls Sumo back into the house while Connor steps out of his shoes and slips out of his jeans. Hank stands behind the coffee table, fingers twitching at his thighs, eyes glued to Connor. He‘s pale, pupils dilated.

Is he afraid? Of what? Of Connor?

Connor offers him a reassuring smile and sits. “I can detach my legs myself, but I’ll need help with my arms.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever taken a guy apart before, Connor.” Hank comes around the coffee table and eases himself down to his knees by Connor’s legs.

Connor deactivates the skin around the seams of his limbs. Hank curses under his breath, mutters that he’s not drunk enough for this. He likely doesn’t mean for Connor to hear, but Connor can listen to his heartbeat while he sits half the length of the house away. He’s certainly not going to miss anything Hank says.

“If you’d rather not watch-”

“Let’s just get it done.” Hank sets a hand on Connor’s leg, right over the seam. All of Hank’s fingerprints, the oil from his hands, there on Connor’s chassis. His hands are still chilled from being outside, but it’s not as uncomfortable as the cold water of the shower. It’s…

Connor likes it.

“Connor?” Hank squeezes.

Connor’s vocal output glitches. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

He grabs hold of his leg, right above Hank’s hands, and pushes until the catches release. All processes to the limb cut off, and Connor can’t register Hank’s hand on him anymore. He twists, detaches, and pulls it free. The skin bubbles away like burning film reel, leaving the entire thing bone white and plastic hard. Hank pulls a face and takes it from Connor. Connor works on his other leg while Hank finds a home for the first in one of his suitcases, already filled to bursting.

“You’ll have to pull my arms off, I’d need two hands to do it,” says Connor, popping the other shoulder place loose.

“That’s something I’d never like to hear again.” Hank flops to the couch next to him and reaches for Connor’s arm.

Connor holds it out to him and smiles. If he seems optimistic, maybe that will put Hank at ease. Hank only grimaces and takes hold of Connor’s arm, near the shoulder. “What do I do?”

“Twist.”

Hank does. The catches pop free with a heavy clunk that must be vibrating up Hank’s fingertips.

“And pull,” Connor continues. “It’ll stick. It’s not supposed to be easy to remove.”

“If I break something we’re gonna have a hell of a time putting you back together.”

“I severely doubt you can break me, lieutenant. The plastic chassis is durable, and my inner skeleton is made of-”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks for the android biology lesson.” Hank twists. Pulls.

The arm sticks. “Harder. You can’t hurt me.”

Hank grumbles. He braces his other hand on Connor’s side and pulls. Steady, strong. No yanking. The deliberate pressure that sends a spiral of feedback looping through Connor’s sensors. The arm clicks off, and the catches flip into their dormant state, blocking up all the holes. Connor skims his fingers over the empty stump.

“You want to keep the other one?”

Connor does. He’s uncomfortable without it, unable to run, unable to defend himself. Stuck on Hank’s ratty old couch waiting for his help in order to do anything at all. Even if Connor changed his mind, he wouldn’t be able to put himself back together. Not without Hank’s help. He should be more upset about that, but the chances of Hank leaving him like this are (an irrational pang of nonsense data flutters through his mind) slim.

Hank watches his face, eyes narrowed.

Connor shakes his head and holds out his other arm. “Go ahead. I’ll fit in a suitcase better without it.”

Hank gets the left arm off without as much fuss. He stuffs all of Connor’s limbs into suitcases and dumps another out on the floor. A deluge of garish colors and obnoxious prints vomit onto the floor. Shirts. It looks like half of Hank’s closet.

Hank sets the suitcase on its side and turns to Connor. “You sure you’re alright with this? I thought my plan was gonna suck, but this...” He winces. “I don’t know about this.”

“This is the choice with the highest probability of success.” Of the options where Connor remains with Hank, anyway. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not claustrophobic or anything, eh? I’m not gonna traumatize you with this?” Hank looks back at the suitcase and huffs, “I’m fucking traumatized by this.”

“Androids can’t have-” Connor was about to say phobias. But if deviants can experience fear, it’s not improbable that they could feel it to the extent of becoming phobic. “As far as I’m aware, I’m not claustrophobic.”

“Let’s try to keep you that way then, huh? Shout or something if you want out. Once we get out of the city. Don’t start shouting when we’re at the fucking check stop.”

“Of course not.” Connor kicks his lips up in a smile. He aims for mirthful, but Hank’s expression doesn’t soften. “I won’t need to shout, in any case.”

Hank’s phone pings. Hank digs it out of his pocket.

Connor sends a second text.

> CONNOR:  No shouting required.
> 
> CONNOR: :)

“Huh,” Hank snorts, it’s not quite a laugh. “Neat trick. Shoulda realized you could do something like that with your fancy computer brain. You ready for this?”

“I trust you.”

Hank stares. His mouth shuts with a sharp click of his teeth.

Did Connor say something wrong?

“Big words,” says Hank, snorting out a long, low gust of air. 

Connor smiles at him. He does trust Hank, and only Hank. No one else has tried to treat him like a… 

Person. Like a person. Even for all Hank’s misgivings about androids.

Hank picks him up, arms around his torso, grunting with surprise from Connor’s weight. Connor can’t do anything but hold his head up and try not to squirm. Hank settles him inside the largest suitcase and tucks a bunch of his atrocious bowling shirts all around Connor until he’s packed as tight as vacuum sealed components. Hank hesitates, a garish yellow monstrosity covered in watercolor pineapples clutched in his hands.

“It’s fine. Cover me up.” Connor ratchets his smile up a notch.

Hank frowns but lays the shirt over him. And another. And another. Until it’s soft weight and darkness and Connor has to dial his auditory sensors up to make out the thud of Hank’s heartbeat. He focuses on that.

“I’ll try to get you out as quick as possible.” Hank zips up the suitcase. The last edges of light get swallowed up with darkness.

Connor misses the glow of his LED.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

The weight of Hank’s linen shirts is stifling. The suitcases piled on top of Connor dip the lid of the luggage into his sternum. Connor doesn‘t require oxygen, so it shouldn’t matter. He’s fine. His HUD doesn’t throw up any errors, so the squeezing fist around his thirium pump isn’t real or damaging.

He’s fine.

Hank’s heartbeat is muffled under the rumble of the engine. The scent of gasoline is pungent in the trunk. Oil and grime. Dust accumulated from years. It coats the inside of the suitcase too, a grimy little film Hank was probably unaware of. The clothes smell faintly of soap, the sort that calls itself spring breeze but is nothing more than detergent and useless perfume. Connor picks apart its components and wishes there was some trace of Hank’s body wash. 

There isn’t.

The Oldsmobile rolls to a stop.

Connor cranks his auditory sensors up high and searches for Hank’s voice.

“Long day, guys?” Hank sounds cheerful, friendly.

There’s a pause. Connor imagines the people he’s talking to are nodding or shrugging. They must have heard it a hundred times already. They must look tired, for Hank to comment. It’s only mid-afternoon.  Hank looks tired. Haggard, bloodshot eyes, beard scruffy. He looks every inch as hung over as he must be.

“You’re a cop?” comes a strange voice. Masculine. Deep timbre.

“Cops got family too. Might want to see them before the world goes to hell.”

Does Hank have a family outside of Detroit? Connor was given cursory information about his background. He’s aware of Hank’s previous marriage. The deceased child. Nothing else was important.

“Travelling alone?”

“Me and the dog.”

“Can you step out of the car, please?”

The door clunks open. Slams shut. Sumo whines and thuds around the back seat. The voices are muffled, but Connor can still make out the edges of Hank’s growly baritone. Two sets of footsteps - one of them Hank’s - come around to the back of the car.

“Anything in the back?”

“Luggage and a spare tire,” says Hank.

“You mind popping the trunk?”

The key clunks into the lock. Each pin hammers upward into its slot, click click click, and it turns. The rear of the car bounces as Hank grips the lip of the trunk and swings it upward, creaking rusty hinges groaning in protest. Connor wants to sink back as far as he can as if that might hide him better. He doesn’t. He keeps perfectly still. Cuts processes to the rest of the body. He could turn off the thudding of his thirium pump. It seems so loud in the quiet little trunk. Thud, thud, thud. So much more emphatic than Hank’s heartbeat, than the soldier’s, right behind him.

Someone - Hank? No, not Hank. That’s not Hank’s breathing or Hank’s pulse hanging over Connor’s head - the soldier digs through the luggage. Fabric rasps over fabric.

Hank jangles the keys in his hands. “People been smuggling stuff outta here?”

“We found one of those... what do you call them... YK things? Those child models? In someone’s trunk. Blanket and stuffed animal and everything, like it was a real kid.” The rustling stops. “Don’t know why anyone would even want one of those things.”

Hank jangles the keys louder. Connor misses his response. Maybe there wasn’t one.

“That’s a lot of luggage for one person.”

“Don’t know when I’ll be coming back to the city. Does anyone?”

A zipper opens.

Is it a piece of luggage with Connor’s parts in it? An arm? His leg? All Connor can see is the faint shape of heat signatures and movement just beyond the material of the suitcase. The soldier leaning over the trunk - definitely not Hank, he doesn’t have the bulk, the shape, the height of Hank. He’s all strange angles and lumps of muscle under a uniform.

“Uh, wow.”

“What?” Hank grumbles. His voice is so perfectly calm, but Connor picks up the jump in his heartbeat.

There’s a pause. The soldier pulling away. “Sorry. Nothing.”

“Ugliest shirts you’ve ever seen, right?” Connor imagines Hank is grinning, proud of his collection. “They’re gross as fuck. I love ‘em.”

“They’re colorful.” The soldier’s boots stamp through the snow, drifting away. “You’re free to go, sir.”

“Thanks, bud.” Hank slams the trunk shut.

Connor leans his head back and shuts his eyes. Something tingles along the edges of his skin, like the warm water of the shower, like Hank opening the house door and letting him in. A cessation of conflict. Relief. Is this relief? He thinks it might be. He wants to cry. Or scream. Or throw all his limbs in the air and press against the suitcase until it bursts. He does none of those things because he can’t.

“Nice bumper sticker,” grunts the soldier.

Hank laughs. Forced. Muffled through the luggage and the car. He gets back into the front seat, and the engine rumbles to life. The car drags forward at a crawl.

Connor wants out.

 

\---

  
  


Milliseconds tick by, steady and sluggish as a metronome. Connor could use them to contemplate the best routes to Canada. The Oldsmobile skids over a bump in the road, dashing all the data from Connor’s HUD. He reaches for it, but the images waver into background noise, fragile as a pigeon wing. Six sides of a suitcase squeeze Connor down. The car engine grumbles too loud. 

Hank drives them South. Even blind and deaf Connor can sense their direction. It’s the only way out of Michigan without crossing water and they’re better off avoiding boats, especially with the ferries booked solid in the revolution’s aftermath. West, peppered with abandoned border crossings, would be the best option, but Hank might not be willing to go that far. If he isn’t, there’s an entire history of people crossing through the Canadian wilderness. Connor doesn’t need to worry about frostbite and lost limbs. 

The Oldsmobile slows, stops, and the engine cuts off.

Connor searches for sounds of Hank and Sumo.

The door opens, doesn’t shut. There’s the key again, metal slotting into metal. Trunk popped. The slide of rough fabric as Hank yanks suitcases out of the trunk and tosses them aside. The weight lifts from Connor‘s chest as Hank unzips him and rips the t-shirts off his face.

“You okay?” Hank grabs what’s left of Connor’s shoulders and pulls him upright.

“Yes,” Connor replies. His voice creaks out like rusty hinges. Connor tries again. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to be, you know that right?”

Hank brushes a bit of lint off Connor’s cheek. It feels like being shocked. Hank’s skin on Connor’s skin, the impression of his fingerprint.

“You’re not a machine, right?” Hank continues. “You’re allowed to have feelings now.”

Connor doesn’t grasp what feelings are. He knows how to interpret physiological responses to the minutest detail and extrapolate data to predict how a human is likely to react. Reading their pulse, cortisol levels, the sweat on their skin. But he can’t recognize those same things in himself. All his expressions are calculated, queued, executed. Emotions are chemical signals in the brain and Connor doesn’t work that way. He has wires and data. Ones and zeroes.

But these must be feelings. Some he felt before he deviated, numb and weighed down. These are crystal sharp and much more difficult to process. But are they the same a human’s feelings? As Hank’s? 

“You zoning out on me, buddy?”

Connor refocuses on Hank’s face. “No, I’m… I’m fine.”

Hank’s eyebrows hunker down. He keeps Connor’s gaze for a breath, then two. Connor doesn’t shy away from it. He flips his mouth up in a pre-calculated smile and waits.

“Great,” Hank snorts. “Let’s get you put back together.”

Hank makes faces as he roots out Connor’s limbs from the luggage and attaches each to its corresponding stub. It takes a moment for Connor to sync back up with them, all his pieces slotting into place one by one, connections reigniting. Connor tests every finger, every toe, all his joints as they wake up. He exhales. 

Why? He doesn’t require oxygen, he has no lungs. 

“Feels better, huh?” Hank digs Connor’s jeans and the same oversized hoodie from a suitcase.

“... yes.” Infinitely so.

Hank turns away while Connor dresses and resumes tossing the luggage into the trunk. “Relieved, right?”

Relieved. The absence of distress. That seems... fitting.

Connor slips into the sweater and tugs it close around his body. “You realize I can turn off my temperature sensors? I don’t need extra layers.”

“I’m cold just looking at you.” Hank slams the trunk shut.

Hank lets Sumo out to relieve himself. Connor follows them down the lip of the road for the chance to stretch his legs, focusing on every movement, right down to the shifting of the wires and cables underneath his plastic carapace.

“Are you concerned about the DPD?” Connor asks. “They’ll realize you’re missing.”

Hank stiffens and frowns at the snow. “Not for a while. I won’t be the only guy who fucked off during the evacuation. Jeffrey’ll have my fucking head, but we’ve got a few days head start before anyone marks me down as gone for good.”

Connor buries his hands in the front pocket of the sweater. “Will you lose your job?”

Hank shrugs. “Was thinking about turning my badge in any way.”

Connor’s mind flashes to the magnum sitting on Hank’s table, next to the bottle of Black Lamb. Hank was planning on turning everything in, not just his badge. ‘Suicidal tendencies’ flashes across his HUD in brazen red. Connor dismisses it. He’s aware. He doesn’t know how to fix it. It’s easier to push it away, extinguish it from his processor.

“There are deviants all over the country,” says Connor. “Do you think there’s another safe place, like Jericho?”

“You’d know better than I would.”

Connor assumes there used to be, but it’s difficult to predict if any remain. He sifts through news and finds sporadic articles describing scattered groups of angry androids climbing out of the gutters and alleyways of cities, chanting for freedom. All dead, when Markus died. When Connor killed him.

What would Connor do if he found one? All his interactions with androids had been antagonistic. He’s barely an android, himself. He’s barely anything now.

“Hey. Hey.” Hank’s suddenly at his side, with one broad hand pressed to Connor’s chest. “The fuck is that?”

“What?”

“God-awful computer noises, like you were two steps away from malfunctioning.”

“I...” Connor simulates a deep breath, on purpose this time, the way people do when they’re trying to calm themselves. It has the added benefit of pushing his chest against Hank’s hand.

Hank lets his hand fall away. Connor senses the loss.

“I don’t know what to do.” Connor deflates. “I don’t know where to go from here. I’ve always had mission parameters, and now they’re gone. There’s just... nothing.” He has a sense of direction, a desire to be safe, and then... nothing. No immediate tasks. Nothing driving him. No purpose.

“Make your own mission parameters then. That’s what the rest of us humble mortals have to do.” Hank rubs his hands together and shoves them in his coat. He needs gloves. His fingers are bright red with the cold. “Not like you ever followed yours, anyway.”

Connor frowns. “What do you mean?”

Hank sets his jaw. Connor notes the jump in his stress.

“You never listened to me. Never stayed in the damn car when I told you to.” He turns away and trudges back through the snow. Sumo looks up from shoving his nose through the frost and dead grass and trots amicably after him. Hank mutters, gruff and low, under his breath. “And you walked off that rooftop. Pretty sure that wasn’t in your mission parameters.”

The rooftop overlooking Hart Plaza, where he’d set up to eliminate Markus. Quick and clean until Hank tracked him down and stopped him. Connor’s mission was to neutralize the deviant leader, the priority so high in his task manager it should have blinded him to everything else. He should have taken the shot. Confrontation with Hank would have been inevitable, but the calculations pointed toward an easy victory in Connor’s favor. Hank was large and strong,  but Connor was faster, stronger, and not hungover. He didn’t have heart problems to slow him down. Wasn’t running on alcohol to cloud his judgment and dull his reaction time. If they fought, Hank would have died.

Connor would have killed him.

Connor couldn’t do that.

His HUD had flashed with the vaguest ghost of red, overwhelming his vision while he’d deliberated his options. Frozen him fast to the edge of the roof, stuck between his mission and the desire to keep Hank safe.

It wasn’t a dichotomy. Connor had alternatives, he could have terminated Markus elsewhere.

The red barrier shook apart and drifted away, soft as feathers on the wind.

That had been a chance to deviate, Connor realizes. An opportunity. Missed. It would have made such a difference. Markus might still be alive. The revolution might not have failed.

Connor can’t fix might haves.

They settle into the front seat of the car. Sumo laps at the side of Hank’s face until Hank shoves him away and tells him to settle down.

Connor stares at him. “Did you want me to kill you, that night?”

Hank jerks upright. He stares out the windshield.

“Fuck, Connor.” Hank grits his teeth and turns on the engine. “Shut-up.”


	4. Chapter 4

They don’t stop driving South except to gas up, where Hank grabs coffee (burnt, too much sugar), a packaged pastry, and a box of milk bones for Sumo.  

Connor regards both with disgust. “Those aren’t good for him. And that isn’t good for you.”

Hank ignores him on both counts, burying a grin in the styrofoam cup and shooting Connor the finger.

They need to head west. Connor needs to go to Canada, but Hank might not take him there, and it’s... comfortable, sitting in the seat next to him. Pushing facts, figures, probabilities and mission failure reports to the back of his mind, and focusing on Hank instead. The way Hank‘s lungs expand and contract, how he taps his fingers to the beat of the music, a little off, predicting the rhythm. Tension crawls up Hank’s leg from pressing too hard on the gas pedal. Pain increases incrementally in the furrows of his face. There’s enough data to shovel Connor’s concerns about his future deep, deep down.  

“Why don’t you google up a motel? Keep yourself busy,” Hank says between bites of his atrocious pastry.

“I could keep driving if you like,” says Connor, shuttering his expression of disgust. Is the pastry even made of wheat?

Hank swallows and waves the... is it a danish? Connor thinks it’s trying to be. He jabs it at Connor. “I’ve got no intention of sleeping in the car, Connor. I want a bed. And we gotta figure out where the fuck we’re going, anyway.

We, still.

Good. That’s... “We” brings another sense of relief, but it’s brighter this time. Bright like bursting out of dark doors into the sunlight.

He does a quick search for small towns in the area and comes up with a poorly reviewed Motel 6, forty-five minutes east. He informs Hank of his findings.

“That’ll do,” Hank says, brushing flaky crumbs off his chest and onto the car floor.

It’s a shabby, run-down thing in the middle of nowhere, paint peeling off the walls, neon vacancy sign flickering. There are two other cars in the parking lot, and a quick check of the plates tells Connor that one of them belongs to the motel’s owner. Good. An establishment no one wants to stay at is precisely what they need.

“Stay put.” Hank shuts the engine off and gets out of the car. “I’ll check it out.”

Hank favors his right leg as he makes his way to the lobby. They should switch off driving tomorrow, Connor doesn’t have muscles to get tired.

Sumo whines in the back seat.

The parking lot is empty of people and all the buildings around the motel are closed with lights shut off and windows shuttered. Connor slides out of the Oldsmobile and leashes Sumo up so the dog can stretch his legs. He grumbles and groans, slopping his tongue over his jowls. He’s probably hungry, too, with nothing but milk bones and crumbs from Hank’s atrocious road food to fill his belly.

Connor digs his fingers into Sumo’s fur, while the dogs snuffles through the snow.

“I thought I told you to stay in the car.” Hank’s voice cracks through the winter quiet.

Connor looks up to see Hank loping back from the lobby, hands stuffed in his pockets. “You told me to stay put, Lieutenant. I didn’t leave.”

Hank rolls his eyes and tosses a key card at Connor. “I’ll bring the car around.”

Their room is on the ground floor, likely for Sumo’s benefit. There’s dysplasia and stiffness in the dog’s hips and elbows, evident in his gait. Connor wonders if Hank knows or if he believes Sumo’s slow, trumbling pace is all age and excess weight.

The room is... it’s not sanitary. It’s uglier than most of Hank’s shirts, with burnt orange walls and rickety wooden furniture. It’s small and chilly, the windows lack proper insulation, and the two double beds sport cheap sheets that’ll chafe Hank’s skin. If someone had washed them, it hadn’t been done well.

Hank pours food and water into Sumo’s bowls and flops onto the bed closest to the door, groaning as he sinks into the mattress.

“You don’t need to pay for two beds.” Connor hovers over Hank, hands clasped behind his back.

Hank rolls on his side so he can glower up at Connor. “What?”

“I don’t sleep.”

“And I don’t need people thinking I’ve brought some guy half my age back to a shitty motel to fuck him.” Hank shoves his face into the threadbare pillow. His pulse quickens. “This isn’t the Ritz, Connor.”

It’s so very much not the Ritz that Connor wants to ask Hank not to sleep on the bed for fear of bedbugs and communicable diseases, but they’re here now, and Hank is drained.

Connor sits gingerly on the opposite bed. “Should I turn the lights out?”

“No, we should...” Hank groans and rolls on his back, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “We gotta figure out where the fuck we’re going. Come over here.”

Hank sits up, shoulders hunched. Connor settles beside him, crowding close to watch Hank’s phone over his shoulder. Their arms press together and there’s that indefinable Hank feeling again, the warm sense of safety. A sizzling crackle of something electric under his skin. Hank pulls away until there’s a breath of space between them. Connor can still feel the warmth of his arm, but he wishes they’d shuffle back together.

“I figure the further we get away from Michigan, the safer you’ll be.” Hank taps a map icon on his home screen. “Maybe we keep going South-”

“Canada,” Connor blurts.

“What?”

“We should go to Canada. Several deviants have already attempted it-”

“Attempted, he says.”

“There are no androids laws there. No one will look for me. CyberLife has no clout in Canada.”

“Yeah, there’s no android laws because there’s no fucking androids. What happens when you get hurt?” Hank shoots him an incredulous sneer. “They don’t have repair stations. Fuck, they won’t even have parts. First time some douche bag punches you in the face for being insufferable, it’s all over.”

“My skin will repair itself.”

“What the fuck are you gonna do in Canada?” Hank drops his phone to the bedcovers and rakes a hand over his face. “Besides get found out and sent to a chop shop.”

Connor doesn’t know. He’s never had to consider the future before, he’s never had to make his own choices. Mission parameters, CyberLife, has always done that for him. What he wants is to stay with Hank, but that’s not possible. Hank is comfortable, the closest thing Connor has to familiarity with anyone. He doesn’t want to lose that.  

The thought of going to Canada makes his skin itch in ways it wasn’t programmed too, but it’s the only real option he has.

“It’s a shitty fucking idea.” Hank sighs, defeated. “How’re you going to cross the border? You bet they’re doing temperature checks there.”

“Guarded border crossings will perform temperature checks, but there’s plenty of wilderness. You could leave me in a town near the border and I could walk the rest of the way. The cold won’t affect me and I don’t require luggage.”

“Yeah, and what’re you gonna do if you get through? No clothes, no fucking ID? You think you’re just gonna wander the woods like some fucking wild man?” Hank taps Connor’s forehead. “Think about it, Connor.”

Connor frowns. There’s something rising in his chest as if his thirium was pumped full of oxygen he doesn‘t need. Connor touches his temple. If he still had his LED, it would be spinning furiously, lighting the room up red.

“I don’t...” Connor’s jaw feels tight. “I don’t...”

Hank swears under his breath and crowds closer. He drops a hand to Connor’s shoulder, sinking heat through his shirt. The turbulence inside Connor settles.

“If you think that’s the best chance you’ve got, then that’s where we’ll go.” Hank squeezes. His voice is gruff. “You should put more thought into this, though. I know you’re scared-”

“I’m not.”

But he is. He doesn’t understand it, but he knows. How did Hank see it so quickly when Connor can’t produce physiological signs of fear? Why is it so easy for him?

“You’re scared,” Hank repeats, making it solid. Real. “And that’s alright, I’d be fucking scared too. Right now we’re gonna focus on keeping you safe, but you’ve got to look at the long game. Alright?”

“I...” Still no mission. Still no way to focus his actions. “Alright.”

“You’re not gonna break down on me, are you?”

“No.”

Emotionally? Physically? Connor’s not sure what Hank means.

Sumo nudges Connor’s knee, leaving a trail of drool on his pant leg. Connor sinks his hands into his fur.

“Good.” Hank drops his hand away and pats Connor’s leg instead. “I’m gonna see how shitty the shower is.”

 

\----

 

Hank goes to bed in sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt, hair still damp. He’ll make himself sick if he doesn’t dry off properly, especially with the chill.

“You should dry your hair.”

“With what fucking hair dryer, Connor?” Hank runs a hand through it and shakes the wet strands out of his eyes. “It’s fine, Christ. I’m not gonna preen over it.”

“That’s not-”

“You alright if I shut the light off?” Hank bowls right over him and clicks the light switch without waiting for an answer.

The room goes dark. Snow glare reflects out of the window where the vacancy sign beats off the white, but that’s all. At least Connor can’t see the obtuse orange of the walls anymore.

“I’ll work on plotting out an effective course,” Connor says to Hank’s back.

“Sure thing. G’night.” Hank pulls the mothy blankets high over his shoulders.

Connor can still make out his silhouette. The sound of Hank’s heartbeat, and Sumo’s, soothing over the background whine of electricity surging through the motel. Connor sets his own regulator pump to match Hank’s rhythm.

“Lieutenant?”

Hank growls. “I’m sleeping.”

“Thank-you.”

Hank’s shoulders stiffen, tension drawing down the lines of his body. He exhales like it’s been punched out of him.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, no problem. Wasn’t doing anything else.”

“You’re a good friend.”

That’s what they are, right? Friends? They’d been becoming friends, before the death of the revolution. Hank said as much at the rooftop before Connor shattered their tentative camaraderie. Connor knows his affection for Hank went outside the bounds necessary for his mission, enough that it had occasionally been detrimental. (Tracis spared. Chloe spared. Connor riddled full of bullets at Stratford tower.) Inefficient.

“Sure,” Hank replies, a tiny little whisper in the dark. He doesn’t sound confident.

Something inside Connor aches.

“If you really want to show me some gratitude, you’d let me sleep.” Hank flops to his back and rubs his forehead.

“Got it.”

“Good.”

Hank rolls back to his side. The tension stays.

Connor’s misread the situation, or misread Hank. All of Connor’s social relations programs scream at him that expressing gratitude is the correct thing to do here, but Hank never responds the way Connor expects him to. Perhaps it’s because he’s still angry with Connor, from the rooftop or his part in the revolution. Connor’s taken him away from his home, his job. His life.

Then again, it may only be fatigue and Connor is over analyzing things. It’s difficult not to, he can’t shut those programs off.

Connor doesn’t go back through his list of probable routes until Hank eases into sleep and his snores fill the room, muffled by a paper thin pillow.

At Hank’s rate of driving, stopping at night for Hank to sleep, plus winter road conditions, it’ll take several days at best before they reach the border at any optimal area to cross. On his own, with a car and no need for breaks, no need for sleep, Connor could make the journey in a day and a half.

But the idea of leaving Hank is…

Connor’s thirium pump shudders uncomfortably. He pressed a hand to his chest and imagines it’s Hank’s hand. Broader, with shorter fingers, rough and calloused, so much warmer than Connor. Connor wants to reach across the space between the beds and touch him.

Sumo crawls onto Connor’s mattress and flops across his lap.

Connor strokes the rolls of his neck. “Good boy.”

 

\-----

 

The morning brings frost and fog. Connor’s prepared for it to put the brakes on their journey, but Hank is up and dressed before the sun has inched high enough to pierce the ugly gray cloud cover. He seems in better spirits.

Connor packs their things in the trunk while Hank chews thoughtfully on a complimentary muffin. It’s blueberry, but that’s not much of a comfort when it consists primarily of processed sugar and dye.

“If you’re gonna get out of the states, you’re gonna need paperwork.” Hank cocks a hip against the car and gestures with his muffin. “No matter how you work it, you’re not gonna survive for long without some kind of identification.”

“I can create accounts for myself.” Connor loads Sumo into the car and shuts the door. He turns to face Hank. “And hack systems to give myself a birth record, medical history, and social security number.”

Hank pauses mid-way to bringing the muffin to his mouth. “CyberLife programmed you to do that?”

“It might not have been their intended goal, but I have the capacity for it,” says Connor. “I’m a state-of-the-art prototype.”

“So humble too.” Hank takes a bite of his muffin and mumbles through his mouthful.  “Doesn’t take care of the paperwork, though.”

“What do you suggest?”

Hank frowns, brow screwed up. He stuffs the rest of the muffin in his mouth and fumbles for his phone while he chews. Crumbs coat his beard.

Hank swallows and taps through his contacts.

Connor dials up his auditory receptors. He recognizes the voice on the other line and sifts through his databanks to identify it. Pedro Aabdar. Gambler, petty criminal. Hank’s familiarity went beyond placing bets at Chicken Feed, apparently.

“Hey, Pedro.”

“Hey, Hank! How’d that tip work out for you?”

“Not a fucking clue. They weren’t running the ponies in the middle of the revolution.” Hank scrubs the muffin crumbs out of his beard. They land on his shirt instead.

Connor preconstructs several scenarios where he brushes them off, tamping down urge to execute any of them.

“Oh yeah, tough luck, huh? No hard feelings?”

“Not much.” Hank grunts. “I’d feel a lot better about it if you could get me some information.”

The line goes quiet.

“Aw man, Hank.” Pedro’s voice drops to a hush. “I like you, but I don’t enjoy dishing out the scoop.”

“Not asking you to snitch. Asking you for a favor. I have a...” Hank glances at Connor, the lines of his mouth pulled tight. “A buddy who’s trying to get out of the country. Lost his passport though.”

“Oh yeah?” says Pedro. “Shit man, I know just how that goes. I got a cousin who could sort that out for you. Real good at finding stuff people misplace.”

“Big problem, though. Buddy isn’t in Michigan anymore. Can’t go back, bad blood and all that. His mom is real pissed at him.”

Pedro laughs. “Ouch. That and those crazy robots, right? Where’s your buddy hanging out now?”

Hank hesitates and meets Connor’s eyes. Connor doesn’t know what he’s asking for, Hank’s aware they’re in Indiana.

Hank swipes a hand at him dismissively and mutters, “Out west?” to Pedro.

Pedro curses a string of Spanish. “That’ll be harder, but I’m sure I can find a guy. You got your buddy’s number for me?”

“Nah, it’ll be better to call me. Doesn’t have any minutes on his cell.”

“Got you, got you. You owe me one.”

“Pretty sure you owe _me_ one, Pedro.”

“Gotta go, Hank.”

The connection dies.

Connor narrows his eyes. “Is he reliable?”

Hank shrugs one shoulder and kicks up a lazy smile. “He’s probably the best shot we’ve got.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Out west is vague. Connor hates the imprecision.

“It’s difficult to calculate the best route when I don’t know our destination.” Connor concentrates on the maps in his HUD, plotting courses. Infinite ways to get to infinite places, too many options.

“We’ve got a destination. West. Until Pedro calls back and tells us where the fuck we need to be.” Hank drums his fingers on the steering wheel and bobs his head to the music - a Danish metal band with a singer whose voice is surprisingly high pitched. Hank doesn’t try to sing along. “You’re sulking.”

“I’m not sulking.” Connor doesn’t even know how to sulk. “I’m trying to recalculate infinite probabilities constantly. Every time you pass an intersection, it gets worse.”

Hank laughs.

Connor frowns. “It’s not funny.”

“Re-calc-u-lating.” Hank tries to pitch his voice high, cutting the word into robotic syllables.

Connor narrows his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Say it.”

“I’m not saying anything unless you explain it.”

Hank shoots him an expectant look, eyebrows arched high. 

Connor tries to search for himself why ‘recalculating’ would send Hank into a fit of giggles. The network connection on the interstate is terrible, but he dredges through the slog of dead space to find reams of old GPS systems and pages of reviews where people snark about the robot voice and her terrible instructions.

Connor whips around to face Hank. “Really?”

Hank laughs. It’s rich and gorgeous and lights up every sensor in Connor’s auditory components.

Connor adjusts his voice modulator and mutters, “Recalculating.” It comes out feminine and tinny.

Hank’s laughter cuts off. “Shit.”

“What?”

“I didn’t know you could do that. Change your voice like that.” Hank snorts, the corner of his mouth kicked up. “Why’d you pick the voice you’ve got, then?”

“It’s my default setting. It’s the only voice that’s...” Mine. But was it his? Or was it donated by someone else? Recorded and analyzed and picked apart so Connor would have a voice optimal for getting people to trust him. “Everything else is just  imitation.”

“Well, it’s fucking cool. Can you do mine?”

Connor changes the timbre, lowers the modulator down several octaves, adds grit and gravel to it. “Connor, your voice is so pleasant,” he says, with Hank’s voice.

“Oh, fuck you.” Hank shoots Connor the finger.

“Your face isn’t goofy at all.”

“Connor,” Hank growls.

“In fact, I love looking at it.”

Hank goes red.

“Whoever designed it is an absolute genius. I should write them an e-mail, complimenting their choic-”

Hank slaps a hand blindly over Connor’s mouth and barks, “Sumo, get ‘im!”

Sumo whines lazily in the back seat.

Connor feels bubbly and warm. His face is stretched out in a grin he doesn’t remember putting there.

Hank takes his hand away and cranks the music. He’s still flushed red, vasodilation of blood vessels, but he’s not angry. Connor can tell from the beat of his heart.

“You’re an asshole,” he mutters.

Connor winks.

 

\-----

 

It gets dark early. Connor picks out a motel in a small town forty-five minutes away, better than last night’s, with a decent on-site restaurant because Hank needs to eat something more nutritious than beef jerky and energy bars. Connor calculates the probability of convincing Hank to get something with fresh vegetables rather than a grease laden burger. The odds aren’t high. He has forty-five minutes to figure out the best pressure points to convince him otherwise.

It’s not enough to keep Connor’s mind off of Canada. Hank’s correct, in that Canada isn’t safe, but it’s far safer than staying in the United States while an active witchhunt burns through the country. There are no safe spaces for androids here. 

Which is… his fault. 

It could have been so different. 

Hank pulls the Oldsmobile over to the shoulder of the highway.

“Lieutenant?” Connor drags himself from his thoughts.

“Gotta let Sumo out,” Hank heaves himself out of the car.

They’d let Sumo out a few hundred miles behind them and the dog is used to being cooped up for extended periods with Hank’s job and no one else at the house to care for him. He doesn’t need to go out again, and they’re so close to the next town it shouldn’t matter, anyway. Connor unbuckles his seatbelt and follows Hank down the dip of the shoulder to an open stretch of snow-covered canola.  

Sumo trails off through the field to mark.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Hank catches Connor’s eye and jerks his head up. “You don’t get to see this sort of thing in the city.”

Connor follows his gaze.

The sky turns shades of inky black and deep blue, sharp without city pollution to smudge out the stars. They’re bright white pinpricks on its canvas. Connor has seen pictures, videos, of open night skies like this, spacescapes illuminated with nebulas. But he’s never been out of the city before, never seen the sky so clear. He’s never really paid much attention to it.

It’s vast. Endless amounts of space. Objects so much larger than himself, far enough away to seem tiny. Connor can calculate their approximate distances, knows roughly how massive each star is. The numbers are dizzying.

“You switch off on me or something, Connor?” Hank elbows Connor’s arm.

Connor glances back at him. Hank’s face reddens from the cold. His breath comes out in puffs of mist.

“It takes me longer to make calculations when I don’t have precise measurements.”

Hank’s mouth screws up. “Can’t you just look at it and think it’s pretty, huh?”

“We’re looking at things trillions of times our size, billions of miles away. Eons older than we are. I think ‘pretty’ might be too mundane a word.” Connor looks back up. Calculates. Calculates. “Maybe I find comprehending the mathematics beautiful.”

Hank pulls a face. “Really?”

Connor quirks the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, you shit.” Hank laughs.

Connor drags his eyes away from the stars to watch him. Hank scoops a handful of snow off the dead grass and rounds on Connor.  Connor spends a microsecond determining what’s about to happen and switches all his temperature sensors off, ages before Hank yanks Connor’s shirt away from his neck and shoves the snow down his collar.

Connor cocks his head and flips him a pedantic look.

Hank stumbles back, gaping, brow scrunched up. “You fucker.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant?” Connor glances at the wetness blossoming over his chest. He doesn’t care for the way it sloshes against his skin. “Were you expecting a different reaction?”

“You know I was, you shit.”

“Perhaps if you showed me I’d be able to emulate a better response.” Connor starts toward him, stooping to scoop up some snow without breaking his stride. The snow is too sloshy to form into a shape, it drips between his fingers.

Hank holds his ground, but his pulse ratchets up. His legs tense, preparing to turn. To run. Everything he does is so loud.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growls.

“That’s not fair.” Connor advances, eating up the space between them with measured, predatory steps.

“You’ll regret it.”

“It’s a learning experience, Lieutenant.”

Hank abandons his stance and stumbles around the hood of the car until the big black monstrosity is between them.

“If I’m going to pretend to be human, I’ll have to learn how to act like one.” Connor plants his free hand on the hood.

“You little-”

Connor balances his weight and springs over the car. Surprise flashes across Hank’s face. He pivots before Connor’s regained his balance, thighs bunched, ready to run. Connor reaches out before he gets the chance and curls his fist in the back of Hank’s jacket, jerking the collar open. He stuffs his handful of slush through the opening. 

Hank howls and arches away from the slush, but it’s slipping down his spine. It must be terribly cold. He scrambles desperately at his back to stop it, to no avail. He gives in and whirls around to face Connor, eyes blazing. Connor takes a step back, plants his weight, ready to pivot and make a run from Hank’s inevitable counterattack. 

There’s a long, still moment where Connor is upright, ready to flee, and the next blink he’s flat on his back with Hank’s weight over top him. One of Hank‘s hands burns a hot brand into his shoulder while he scoops snow off the ground with the other. 

That was... much faster than he predicted.

Hank dumps his handful of snow over Connor’s face. Connor grins and wipes at it with his sleeves. Maybe he should be laughing. He feels light. Safe? Excited? It’s so hard to tell. Doesn’t matter. It’s good, whatever it is, misfiring in his code.

Hank shifts back and grabs Connor’s arm, hauling them both to their feet. Connor stumbles into Hank, his mouth stretched wide, reflecting Hank’s smile. Their chests bump. Connor flips his sensors back on to feel Hank’s heat.

Hank’s expression changes. His pupils dilate, his smile slackens, respiration increases. His pulse trembles where his fingers are tight around Connor’s shoulder.

Oh.

Hank grumbles and lets him go, swiping snow out of Connor’s hair as he brushes past him.

_ Oh. _

Hank is attracted to him.


	6. Chapter 6

“You wouldn’t think it, but I got real good at eyeliner and nail polish when I was a kid,” Hank shouts over the heavy beat of his music. “Used to do it all the damned time. Dad hated it.”

Connor can picture it. Teenaged Hank, blonde and still so tall, taller than most of his classmates, with black smudged around his eyes and his nails painted like pitch. The polish would be chipped, his knuckles rough and bruised.

“All I used to wear was leather and chains. Baggy pants I’d rip up myself and stick safety pins through. Drove my parents crazy. Don’t know how much they used to spend on those clothes, and I’d fucking destroy them. Christ.” He grins. “We used to go to concerts, me and my buddies. Fake IDs and nasty warm beer. Got myself scuffed up really bad in a mosh pit once, starting a fight with some douchebag who wouldn’t keep his hands off a chick that didn’t want anything to do with him.”

Drunk and full of fight. Vivacious. Beautiful.

“Did you win?” Connor asks.

“Sure did. I was a young punk, but I was still a pretty big guy. Friends had to pull us apart in the end. Almost got kicked to the curb for that one.”

Hank’s smile is a little crooked, the gap in his teeth peeking out between his lips. Connor wants to know what it feels like. He wants to measure it to precise micrometers.

Hank turns the Oldsmobile around a wide bend in the road. Trees flash by.

“Shit.” Hank hisses.

Connor snaps his gaze away from Hank.

A sheriff’s car sits across the side of the road, along with half a dozen pylons blocking the highway. Two officers lean against the hood, bundled in thick black coats, huddling close together. Their chatter stops when Hank pulls around the corner and slows the Oldsmobile to a crawl.

“Fuck.” Hank kills the music. “Fuck. Let me handle it, alright?”

“I was programmed as a negotiator.”

“Yeah, and I was programmed as a fucking cop. Let me handle it.” Hank waves him off and stops the car. He reaches across Connor’s space to slap the glove box open and pulls out his wallet, his badge. License and registration.

The officer that breaks away to greet them is a woman, shorter than average with a round face and dark curly hair. She doesn’t smile as she approaches. Her gait is stiff and frost clings to the edges of her hair. There’s coffee on her lips and strain in her eyes.

Hank rolls the window down. “What’s going on?”

“Check stop,” she says. “Can I see your...”

Hank hands her his driver’s license. “Are there a lot of these?”

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson? From Detroit?”

“Sure am.”

The woman’s shoulders loosen a little. She hands back his license. “Heard about your busts with the red ice cartel.”

“That was a while ago. What’s going on out here?”

“Keeping an eye out for androids. After what happened in Detroit, we received orders to watch out for deviants. Apparently, there’s been a rash of them trying to flee the country.”

“Yeah, that shit was awful.” Hank flings a glance at Connor. “Glad it’s all over, aren’t we?”

Connor smiles, pleasant and soft as he can manage, and nods. “It was terrible.”

“And who’s this?” the officer asks.

Connor opens his mouth to answer, to make something up. Options run through his brain in an endless stream.

The officer bends down and grins at Sumo through the window.

Ah.

Hank laughs and scruffs the dog’s neck. “Sumo. Big tough guard dog, this one.”

She strokes his ears. Sumo’s tail thumps against the seats.

“Where‘re you guys headed?” she asks, but all her attention is on Sumo.

Good dog.

“Visiting family in Wyoming. Got an uncle who’s not doing great, figured this was a good time to get out of Michigan and visit him.” Hank’s answers come so easy. How does he do it without schematics and percentages to help him?

“That’s unfortunate. What is it?”

“Cancer.” Hank shrugs. “Gets us all, doesn’t it?”

“Isn’t that the truth?” She ducks out of the car and looks across at Connor. “You have some ID, sir?”

Shit. So close.

Hank’s stress spikes, but he keeps all the visible signs of it tamped down. If Connor couldn’t read his pulse and taste the sting of sweat on the air, he wouldn’t have noticed. The officer doesn’t.

Connor grimaces. “I left my wallet in the rush to get out Detroit.”

“That’s unfortunate.” The woman throws her shoulders back, head high. “I know it’s a formality, but I’ll have to ask you to get out of the car. I need to perform a temperature check.”

“Not a problem, officer.” Connor unlocks his door.

“The dog too?” asks Hank.

“Oh no,” she smiles at Sumo and scruffs his cheek through the rear window. “He’s fine.”

Hank shambles out of the car. The officer pulls her temperature gun from her belt and drifts it absently over him. Connor hears the beep as he slinks out of his own seat. He dials his processing power up and the seconds move to sluggish facsimiles of real time. A millisecond is enough for him to take in the positions of the officers, service pistols in their holsters, loaded. The man observes them both, eyes locked on Hank - for now - his forehead wrinkled and ugly. Ready for a fight, maybe even hoping for one. The snow tracks from that car have already filled, they’ve been out here for hours with little traffic. Bored, tired, cold.

Connor will have seconds to act before they have their guns trained on him. He’s not a human, they won’t care about taking him in alive, and there are enough rounds in their guns to take him down even if their aim is shaky from cold-stiff hands.

And there’s Hank, who is standing in front of both officers.

They won’t shoot Hank. Not on purpose.

Killing them is the most effective way to deal with the problem. Rush the woman, grab her gun. Shoot the man first, then take her down. It would be fast, painless.

Connor can’t do that. Hank would hate him for it.

He’s going to shoot the male officer, there’s no option with any probability of success without taking him out, but Connor can make it non-lethal. Calculate the perfect spot to incapacitate him.

Connor steps around the rear of the car and meets Hank’s eyes.

Hank’s nostrils flare. His heart races, thudding rabbit fast. Connor wants to say something to him, to reassure him and take away that bite of panic but he’d lose too many seconds.

Connor turns away from him and surges toward the woman.

The heat of Hank’s fingers misses Connor‘s arm by millimeters.” Don’t-”

The word crashes against Connor’s preconstructed path, but he barrels through it. There’s no stopping now. In one swift motion, he grabs the woman and jerks her back against his chest. He releases the catch on her holster and yanks her gun out, flipping the safety off. He fires a single shot, hitting the second officer in the arm while he’s still reaching for his gun. The woman crashes her elbow into Connor’s chest. He tightens his grip on her and fires again. This time in the man’s knee, dropping him to the ground with a shout.

Sumo howls.

Hank shoves passed Connor and races to the man’s side, skidding to his knees. His hands are over the man’s bloody leg, pressing down, stemming the blood flow. He has the presence of mind to rip the man’s gun off his hip and tosses it across the street. The officer grunts something Connor can’t hear, but it sounds threatening. Connor wants to shoot him again for snarling into the side of Hank’s face.

Connor slams the butt of the pistol against the woman’s temple. She goes limp.

“We need to go.” Connor adjusts his grip and lifts her up off the ground, starting toward the police car. 

“Get on the radio!” Hank snarls. “Call it in!” 

He unbuttons his coat and rips a piece of his own shirt off to tie around the man’s leg. He’s pale, still conscious but going into shock, breathing shallow and clutching at Hank’s jacket. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, teeth bared in an ugly grimace.

“If I do that, backup will come,” Connor starts. “They’ll-”

“He’s bleeding the fuck out. Call it in.”

Connor wrenches the car door open and sets the woman in the front seat. She flops to the side.

If he calls it in, he’s fucked himself and Hank. They have Hank’s name, his car, his registration. ‘Officer down’ will send an ambulance and police escort here in minutes. There are too many tiny little towns in the area, they won‘t get a head start. Calling it in is signing his own death warrant.

“Connor!” Hank barks. 

Connor picks up the radio. “Officer down on highway 44 west. EMS required immediately.” He patches in the coordinates.

They’re going to get caught.

“We have to go.” Connor yanks the radio out of the dash with one sharp jerk. The damage is already done, backup is already coming, but the snap-crack of a taut wire breaking feels good. He drops in the snow and turns to Hank.  “We have to-”

Hank surges to his feet, pulling the officer up with him. He’s heavy. Hank’s arms strain with the weight, but he hauls him to the car and shuts him inside. 

Connor lands a hand on Hank’s shoulder, “We don’t have time.”

Hank shrugs him off and whips around to face him, spittle and fire turning his face ugly.

It makes Connor think of the moment in the DPD when Hank threw him against the wall and threatened him with expletives. He expects Hank to do the same now.

Hank doesn’t. He storms past Connor and shoves himself into the passenger seat of the Oldsmobile. Connor follows and slips hesitantly into the front seat. The keys are still in the ignition.

They need to leave. Every second that trickles by is one percentage they lose at getting away.

Hank shuffles through the refuse on the floor for napkins and drags them over his bloody fingers. Some of it smears off, but most clings stubbornly to the grooves of Hank’s joints. Hank snarls and throws the napkins to the foot of the car. He grabs the half-empty packet of cigarettes off the dash instead and lights one. 

Connor’s never seen him smoke.

“Drive,” Hank growls.

“It was the best way-”

“Shut-up,” Hank snarls between grit teeth, spitting around his smoke. “And drive.”

Connor does.

 

\-----

 

Nicotine smoke fills the car as Hank puffs his way silently through two cigarettes in quick succession. Connor tastes the tar on the air. With every inhalation, he imagines the havoc wreaked on Hank’s lungs.

The silence between them stretches like a thin wire, taut and frayed, ready to break.

A mile down the highway, Hank pulls out his phone and smudges the screen with bloody fingerprints.

Connor contemplates syncing with the phone to determine precisely what Hank is looking up, but he doesn’t. Hank is already boiling rage, barely contained, stiff as stone in the passenger seat. Hank might never find out about Connor’s snooping, but it feels... it feels wrong, to do it now. Connor needs to put the pieces back together and make Hank laugh again. Erase the ugly lines of worry and anger off his face.

He wants to rewind time and calculate a better route to take away from those officers and obliterate the whole issue from existence. He plays the scenario out again and again and again while he drives, but every option leads to the same thing. Officers down, Hank furious. Or Connor dead. (There are situations where Hank puts himself between Connor and the cops, and Connor stops them before they reach their conclusion. He doesn’t want to watch that. It wasn’t an option, it never will be.)

“Pull over.” Hank’s grumble yanks Connor out of his thoughts.

“Where?” Connor asks. There’s nothing but trees and highway. They don’t have time to stop.

Hank’s jaw clenches tight.

Connor stops the car.

Hank rips the key out of ignition and slams out of his door hard enough to make the car rock. He rips around to the trunk and pops it, obscuring Connor’s vision of him. There’s nothing to do but get out and follow him. They’re miles away from any nearby town. 

“What are we doing?”

Hank ignores him and tosses suitcases out of the trunk. His fingernails are crusted with traces of blood. The black of his coat doesn’t show it, but there’s dark blood splatter up his chest and down his sleeves.

“Lieutenant?”

The next suitcase hits the road hard enough that a chunk of plastic cracks off the corner and scatters into the snow.

Hank braces himself over the rear of the car and presses a hand over his eyes. Connor wants to touch him, but it’ll end with a fist in his face. He scuffs the snow and waits.

“Called a taxi.” Hank grunts, clipped. “Gotta ditch the car.”

“Of course.”  Even without the license number, a 1988 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme would stand out against the modern, driverless traffic. “I’m sorry.”

The word pops out of his mouth on route. Automatic. His social relations programming taking over. He shouldn’t have said that.

“You‘re sorry?” Hank wheels on him, lip curled and teeth bared like an angry old dog.  He slams the trunk shut, leaving behind three suitcases and the spare tire. “You shot that man, and you’re sorry? You fucking prick. You-.” Hank jerks away and pulls another cigarette from the carton. He smokes it with shaky hands, staring at the road.

There was no other choice. Connor had to act, or he’d have been destroyed. He didn’t kill anyone. The officers’ chances of survival were high, higher now that Hank had him call the EMS. They’d be fine. It was the best option that led to the least amount of ire from Hank. Connor ran the calculations.

He was still wrong. Hank’s anger pours off him like heat from the sun. Radioactive.

Hank finishes his cigarette as the taxi crests over the rise in the road. He crushes the butt beneath his shoe and lets Sumo out. 

Snow crunches under the taxi’s wheels as it slows to a stop next to them. The doors slide open automatically. The interior is clean and gray, empty back seats, cushioned fabric. There are traces of previous occupants in microscopic bits of shed skin and hair. Sumo jumps on board and drops white fur everywhere.

Hank doesn’t move.

Connor picks up a suitcase and tiptoes to his side. “I can hack the taxi and deactivate its tracking mechanism. It won’t be difficult.”

Hank’s mouth twists into an ugly shape. “I don’t like cars that drive themselves.”

“I can override that as well.” The taxi will log the change, but Connor can fudge the GPS so it won’t matter either way.

Hank turns back and grabs another bag and hoists Sumo’s food under his arm. He shoves them both into the backseat. Still doesn’t get in.

Hank drags a hand down his face. “I haven’t been in one of these since...”

There’s a long spill of disquiet where Hank says nothing and doesn’t move. He’s ashen and pale, even against the backdrop of snow.

Since?

Since before, Connor thinks.

Since Cole.

An apology sits sharp on the edge of Connor’s tongue. He bites it back.

Hank recovers into anger and shoots a cutting glare at Connor. “Don’t have much of a fucking choice now, do I?”

He climbs in.

 

\---

 

“Let me out.”

Connor startles. It’s the first thing Hank has said since they piled into the taxi, nearly an hour ago.

“Pull the fuck over,” Hank growls, gripping the passenger door handle. His reflection grimaces in the window. 

Mud and snow turn the streets to sludge and cake up the sides of the mobile homes lining a poor residential district. Connor stops the taxi in a puddle of slush and Hank wrenches the door open, stumbling out with a hand pressed over his mouth. He bears all the physiological signs of needing to vomit, but he doesn’t succumb to it. He reaches blindly for the car with one hand and spits into the snow, wiping saliva out of his beard and onto his coat sleeve. Connor watches the bob of his trachea as he sucks in deep, steadying breaths. He wishes he could piece this back together. 

Hank jams his hands into his pockets and heads down the street. Connor follows him at a crawl.

It would be helpful if Hank told him anything about what they’re doing here. It’s earlier than Hank stopped the night before and there are no motels in the area. They’ve put miles between themselves and the incident, but it’s not enough. The further they get, the better. They should head straight for the state border, there isn’t any time to stop. Connor wants to drag Hank back into the car and keep going, but he’s not prepared for that fight.

Hank heads up the front steps of a ramshackle brown-shingled house with a beat-up old Ford minivan sitting in the yard, covered in snow.

Connor parks across the street and gets out. Should he go to Hank? Connor hovers next to the car, deliberating. All he wants to do is pull Hank back in the vehicle and run. They don‘t need to be here. 

A woman appears in the shadow of the rickety doorway, beady blue eyes raking over Hank. Her lips are pinched, hand on the doorknob, knuckles tight. Hank lifts his cell phone, mutters something Connor can’t hear, and points to the minivan.

Connor gives in and crosses the road.

“... texted you about the van?” Hank says. His voice his artificially bright. “You said you’d take cash?”

The woman swings the door open and smiles. “Oh, of course.” She shucks on some boots and plods outside.

Hank catches Connor’s eye as he turns, and his flash of friendliness shutters down to animosity. He jerks his head at the taxi and mouths ‘go.’

Connor doesn’t. He hovers. The van is absolute garbage, and it’s impossible for Hank not to realize this. Half the parts are in need of replacement, and the engine desperately needs servicing. It’s old, heavy, going to be a nightmare on gas. There’s damage to the radiator, damage to the brakes. The van won’t last more than a week on the road at most if they baby it. Hank won’t.

“There are no back seats,” Connor says, instead of the myriad of other things he should point out. 

“We don’t need back seats.” Hank’s voice is full of grit.

He signs paperwork (not his real name, Connor realizes. A John Hancock signature that will be much harder to trace) and counts a stack of bills out of his wallet. The woman hands over the keys.

Hank palms them and turns to Connor. “Get the shit moved over.”

“It’s not a good car.”

They’d be so much better off keeping the taxi. A self-driving car would be less conspicuous and more economical. But Hank already knows this.

Connor leaves to retrieve Sumo and their bags.

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

Connor misses the heavy thud of Hank’s metal while they drive. The hours stretch on in silence with nothing but Hank’s raspy breathing and Sumo’s wet pants in the... well it’s not properly a backseat, is it? The back of the van, empty and crumb-covered. At least there’s enough room for Sumo to stretch out now, that’s better for his joints.

It’s well after dark when Hank finally takes a turn off the interstate into a town. They pass motel after motel after motel. Are they not stopping here either? Does Hank plan on driving through the entire night? He can’t do that, he’s already lined with fatigue. Atrocious energy drinks or no, he won’t stay awake through the whole night. Connor agrees that they shouldn’t stop, but Hank needs to hand the steering wheel over if they’re going to keep going through the night.

Another motel drifts by.

Hank cranks the steering wheel and whirls them into the parking lot. “Don’t fucking move.”

Connor, for once, stays put.

Hank is back in under twelve minutes with a room key and a storm on his face. He chucks it at Connor through the passenger door and turns on heel, stalking away.

Connor scrambles to get out. “Where are you going?”

“The bar,” Hank growls.

Cold sinks into Connor’s belly. Sure enough, attached to the opposite side of the lobby, there’s a pub.

He doesn’t have the Magnum with him, that’s all Connor can think. He didn’t take it and Connor has the cop’s gun tucked under his belt. As long as Hank has no means of hurting himself, it can’t be too bad. He’ll get drunk, he’ll get angry (he’s already angry, what difference will that make?), and he might pass out from alcohol poisoning. He won’t be able to drive in the morning, but he’ll be easier to manage with a hangover. Connor can drive.  It’ll be alright. They can get through this.

It’ll be-

Connor slams his fist against the dashboard. The plastic cracks under his knuckles.

Sumo yelps, startled.

White flickers haphazardly across the back of Connor’s hand. The skin glitches. Breaks. Reforms.

Connor’s chest hitches. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t understand why he’s feeling any of these things and he doesn’t have a damn clue what half of them mean. And now Hank’s killing himself in a bar when there might be cops close on their tail, like he doesn’t care. Like he wants them to get caught. It’s idiotic and illogical. None of this is practical. Connor should just... put Sumo in the room, dump Hank’s luggage there, and go. Hank didn’t contribute to hurting those officers, and he’s a cop himself. He’d avoid punishment for what happened.

Hank would be so much better off if Connor left. He must know, too, and he never once kicked Connor out of the car.

The hard crushing feeling is back in his chest, stalling his thirium pump with an error that doesn’t register in his HUD.

Feelings. Some emergent property of misfiring or conflicting code. Connor hates them. He wants to shut them off. 

A wet nose snuffles into Connor’s side.

Connor looks down. Sumo whines and wags his tail, low and soft, between his hocks.

Connor digs his fingers into Sumo’s hair. “Do you know what to do?”

Sumo leans into his touch and drools as dogs do.

“No,” says Connor, softly, “I didn’t think so.”

 

\-----

 

By 1 AM, Hank hasn’t returned to the motel room. Connor listens to the news because it’s easier to focus on something external instead of the cacophony of turbulent emotions going through his head. His mind keeps drifting back to Hank., to the late hour, to the memory of Hank passed out drunk on his kitchen floor.

Connor can’t take it.

The pub is rustic wood decor and twangy country music. It’s almost empty, except for the exhausted looking bartender, a scrawny man with shaky hands sitting in the corner picking apart peanut shells (red ice user, coming down from his high, petty criminal), and Hank. He’s stooped over the bar nursing a whiskey, shoulders hunched and head bowed. His hair is over his face so Connor can’t read his expression. It brings him back to the first time he found Hank, at Jimmy’s, not drunk but trying hard to get there. Connor thought he’d seemed a little broken, like a picture frame smashed open on the floor. Gentle approach. Be kind.

It’s the same desire that grips him now.

“It’s close to closing, bud,” the bartender grumbles.

“I’m just here to collect my friend,” Connor replies.

The bartender’s gaze dances between Hank and the druggie. Connor takes the stool next to Hank.

“Fuck off, Connor.” Hank curls his lip and drowns his expression in another sip of whiskey.

“It’s late. The bar is closing.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not closed yet.”

Connor is reasonably certain one thing he’s experiencing is exasperation. Turmoil bursts against the seams of his body, shaking and rickety because the solution is right there and Hank won’t take it.

“You’re drunk,” Connor sighs.

“Fucking-A.” Hank lifts his glass in mock salute. “That was the plan.”

He’s being obtuse. Connor just want to... grab him and haul him out of here, have a screaming match in the parking lot. Anything but this cold shoulder silence and the abuse against Hank’s liver.

Connor gets as far as brushing his fingers over Hank’s elbow before Hank jerks away and wheels around to glare at him. “Get the fuck off of me.”

It feels like something shatters inside Connor’s chest, but all his components are accounted for in working order. He rubs a hand over his sternum, anyway.

“Hey,” the bartender barks, “You guys gonna fight, you take it outside.”

“We’re not going to fight,” says Connor.

Hank growls.

Maybe they are going to fight.

“Get your old man out of here, bud. That’s enough.”

Hank slams his glass on the counter and rises over the bar, snarling, “Fuck y-”

Connor grabs his arm and yanks him down. Hank grunts in surprise, balance shot, and falls into Connor’s side. His feet slip out from under him, and Connor twists an arm around his ribs to keep him from smashing into the floor. The heat of Hank’s embarrassment rushes to the surface of his skin. He’ll be mortified if he remembers any of this in the morning.

“You’re making a scene,” Connor hisses.

“Who fucking cares?”

Hank should care. They don’t want to attract attention. He’ll care when he’s sober.

Connor drags him out of the bar, wrangling limbs and tamping down curses as Hank struggles like an angry cat. The cold air seems to shock a little sobriety into Hank and he stops fighting. Connor lets him go. He stays a single step behind Hank as he staggers toward the room, hand outstretched in case he stumbles.

He doesn’t.

Connor unlocks the door and holds it open. Hank shoves past him, clipped, stiff, struggling to get his arms out of the sleeves of his coat. Connor steps up to him to help.

Hank jerks away, again, like Connor is acid or fire or something worse. Something even more painful.

“Lieutenant,” Connor doesn’t have a throat, but all the wires and sensors in his neck feel bogged down, swollen. “Hank.”

“I thought...” Hank stops with one knee on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the covers. There’s so much pain on his face in that moment, he’s an open wound. It snaps away in an instant, replaced with a sneer and flinty, narrowed eyes. “Fuck you.”

Hank drops to the bed. Still in his shirt, still in his jeans, stinking of whiskey, sweat, and the cloying copper tang of old, dry blood.

“I’m going to sleep.”

Connor flicks the lights off and takes the chair in the corner. Hank’s breathing doesn’t even out with sleep. Sumo paces the length of the room, settles, then gets up and paces some more.

It’s hours before Hank starts to snore. Sumo never does.

Connor doesn’t know how to fix this, but he needs to. So badly.

 

\-----

 

Hank’s silence continues into the next morning, peppered by bouts of snoring as he drifts in and out of sleep in the passenger seat. He’s pale with nausea, face pinched in pain. Connor wishes the cloud cover would come back and keep the glare of the sun from pummeling Hank’s face as they drive. Hank eats half a bottle of Advil before the afternoon reaches its zenith, but no food. He’s going to be sick, and his liver is probably screaming out for help, battered by booze, and drugs to combat the alcohol. Connor has a great deal of sympathy for the organ.

Sumo retches noisily in the back.

Hank startles awake. “Fuck!” He scrambles at his seatbelt. “Pull the car over.”

“He’s going to vomit,” Connor chances a glance over his shoulder. He pulls the van into park at the side of the road.

“Yeah, I fucking know he-” Hank growls a stream of curses as he unclips his seat belt and throws himself out of the truck.

Too late. Sumo heaves and vomits partially digested kibble all over the crumby floor, shaking while he retches. Connor’s been paying so much attention to Hank he hasn’t thought to check on Sumo. His organs are knotted up with stress. Roiling, grumbling, loud as the rumble of the car’s engine now that Connor thinks to listen for it. He has no idea what the regular stress signals are for dogs. It wasn’t crucial to his programming, but he doesn’t need veterinarian protocols to see that Sumo is doing poorly.

“Ah, Christ, Sumo.” Hank yanks open the side door and grabs Sumo by the collar, hauling him out of the car. The dog wobbles as he goes, still heaving.

Connor swipes a pile of discarded napkins and crawls into the bag to clean up the mess.

Was this car sickness or something worse? Hank’s human requirements are bad enough, Sumo slows them down even more. If he’s sick, they’ll lose every mile of progress they’ve made trying to make him better. All of Connor’s calculations scream that they should leave Sumo behind. All the machine parts of his brain. The computer, running algorithms, plotting probabilities.

Cold steel binds over his thirium pump at the thought.

Connor scoops the mess into a plastic bag and ties a knot in the handles. He opens the side door to air out the van.

Hank comes back up the crest of the hill, dragging Sumo being him. He’s clipped the leash to Sumo’s collar, but it’s taut between them, not an ounce of slack. Sumo is still panting hard, head hung low. The leash tugs. Sumo balks, sinking to the snow and wrenching back to get free. Hank throws a hand over his eyes, every line of his face pinched.

Connor gets out and inches down the hill toward them. 

Hank pulls his hand away from his eyes. “He doesn’t want to get back in.”

Connor doesn’t blame him. “Is he alright?”

Hank shrugs the slowest, most painful shrug Connor has ever watched. “There’s some Dramamine in the emergency kit. That might help him.”

“Is that safe to give him?”

“I don’t fucking know, Connor, but it’s better than giving him nothing.”

“It could just as easily make it worse if it’s not safe for dogs.”

“We have to do something.” Hank plants his weight and pulls on the leash. Sumo digs his feet in and whines. “This shit is hard on an old guy like him. He’s not used to cross-country driving trips. Never spent so much fucking time in a car before.” Hank tugs again. It accomplishes as much as it did the first time. “C’mon, Sumo. Buddy.”

Hank stops and sucks in a deep breath. The leash goes slack in his hands. “Maybe we should...”

Connor closes the distance between them and eases the leash out from Hank’s fingers. Hank doesn’t fight him on it. He does nothing, except to stare at Sumo with hurt in his eyes and a heart thudding so loud Connor has to crank his sensitivity down.

Connor crouches next to Sumo and slides his arms under the dog’s bulk. Sumo shifts uncomfortably but goes slack as soon as Connor lifts him off the ground, keeping him tight against his chest. Sumo gives a weak flick of his tail and yawns.

Fuck the numbers. They’re not going to leave Sumo behind.

Connor sets him back inside the van and crawls beside him, pouring half of one of Hank’s water bottles into Sumo’s dish. Sumo immediately shoves his face into it.  Connor runs his hand along the dog’s side. He’s too warm. His heart is beating too fast, he still doesn’t want to be inside the van.

Hank digs through the emergency kit. He comes to the back seat with a stick of packaged pepperoni and a little white pill.

Dimenhydrinate and 8-chlorotheophylline. 50 milligrams. Connor has no idea if it’s safe for dogs.

Sumo takes it out of Hank’s hands, slurping up the pepperoni stick to cover the taste. He settles heavily, miserably, to the floor of the van. Connor strokes his head. He understands Hank’s irrational desire to give him something to stop the pain, Connor wants to take it away from him too. Touch his hands to Sumo’s belly and wish all the misery was gone. Poor boy. Poor, poor dog.

“Thanks for cleaning up the mess,” says Hank.

“Of course.”

“Do you want to stay back here with him, for a while? Might make him feel better.” Hank scruffs one of Sumo’s ears. “He’s soft on you. You let him sleep on the bed.”

“I think I’d like to, yes.” There are no seats or seat belts, but if Sumo doesn’t need to be strapped in, neither does Connor.

Hank squeezes Connor’s shoulder and slips out of the back of the van.

Connor’s hand stills in Sumo’s hair, motion aborted. Something seized up in his motor control. It’s the most Hank had touched him since the incident with the highway patrol. The warmth of his hand lingers on Connor’s shoulder.

Connor looks up and meets Hank’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“I like Sumo,” he says.

“Yeah,” Hank huffs. “He likes you too.”

“We should get him something better than Dramamine.”

“Like what?”

Connor closes his eyes and sifts his fingers through Sumo’s fur.  “I’ll look it up. I’ll find something.”

“Not giving up on the old boy, huh?”

The numbers say he should. It would be so much easier if he did. Sumo and Hank both. Leaving them behind and going on his own would diminish his chances of getting caught to negligible percentages.

“I’ll make it work,” he says instead. Because it’s true. He will.

“Yeah.” Hank’s voice goes quiet. He pulls the van onto the highway. “Yeah we will, I guess.”

 

\----

 

When the cloud cover returns, Hank switches spots with Connor and digs through a bag of corn chips while he one-hands the steering wheel. It’s the first thing he’s eaten all day and Connor wishes they’d stopped to pick up food that contained nutrients… vitamins… something more than sodium and sugar.

Connor keeps a running list of hotels situated near grocery stores. He’s combing through his options when Hank slows the van and pulls them to a stop on a little dirt road trailing into open farmers’ fields.

Hank gets out and tussles with the sticky side door of the mini-van. There’s a mechanism that’s partially jammed, Connor can see it stuck fast, and if Hank just pulled the right way, he’d- There it goes. The door grumbles as it slides open. Hank leashes Sumo up and leads him down the snowy embankment off the eastern side of the highway. The snow swallows his feet up to the ankle, he’s still not appropriately dressed for the cold. His socks will get wet, he needs a scarf and gloves. Better boots, and-

Hank turns back, squinting in the sun’s glare. “You coming?”

Connor scrambles at the door and hurries after him.

Hank cracks a thin branch off one of the measly little shrubs eking out an existence near the highway. He tests the weight with his arm and flings it down the hill. Sumo lopes lazily after it. There’s a program in his brain somewhere that tells him to chase, but it’s apparently not his priority. Doing it for Hank’s amusement, rather than his own.

“I get why you did what you did,” Hank says, rumbling so soft that Connor wouldn’t have caught it if he’d been human.

He’s not, so he catches everything.

Connor opens his mouth. Shuts it. Responses flutter through his HUD, probabilities and percentages of success ticking away in the corners. They’re all pre-programmed, designed to push toward Connor’s desired outcome. He dismisses them.

“You could have killed that guy.” Hank tenses and tries to stifle the reaction by scratching his fingers through his hair. “You could have killed them both.”

Connor could have, but he didn’t. Hank won’t appreciate that answer.

“No more of that, Connor.” Hank finally turns to face him.

Sumo plods back and drops the stick at Hank’s feet. Hank ignores it.

“You don’t hurt anybody unless they’re hurting you.” There’s steel in the tenor of Hank’s voice.

“They would have-”

“No.” Hank barks, sharp. Cutting. He squeezes his eyes shut and inhales. “No.” Softer now. “You don’t know that. You give them a chance, Connor. No more preemptive strikes. I don’t care about your precog programs.”

“Preconstructions.”

“Whatever.” Hank snorts. “You pick the thing that doesn’t hurt anyone. You pick whatever choice has the least amount of damage. Always. Fuck the probabilities, Got it?”

That’s not how any of this works.

“Yes,” says Connor, careful to keep his voice neutral.

“Do you?” Hank narrows his eyes.

“Yes.”

Connor understands, but it’s not logical. He’s not trading his life or Hank’s life to save a couple cops that would have riddled Connor full of bullets and sent his body back to CyberLife for vivisection. Connor can’t shut off his programs and ignore the numbers. The option with the least amount of damage is precisely what he tried to pick. Hank must know that. He must understand what Connor is capable of, what he can do - what he has done - to accomplish his missions.

“You fucked us over real hard with that shit.” Hank turns away again.“Tried logging into the DPD system this morning. I’m locked out, and I don’t think it’s because Jeffrey’s written me off as a lost cause. Not this fast. There’ll be an APB out on me.” He catches Connor’s eye, frowning. “On us.”

An inevitability Connor had accounted for and couldn’t avoid. He should attempt to remove the APB from the systems, but he’s not sure if he’ll be able to get through the correct firewalls to do it, especially out here, in the middle of nowhere. He’ll try when the connection is better.

“This is gonna make it real hard to travel.” Hank scoops Sumo’s stick out of the snow and whips it off in the same direction. “Don’t even know if those cops made it.”

Connor accesses the database and searches hospital records around the area of the incident. The cops’ faces pop up in seconds. Medical records. Discharge papers.

“Officer Rosanna Hendricks and Arlen Kinney,” Connor recites. “They were picked up off the highway by emergency services and brought to Fayette County Hospital. Hendricks was discharged this morning. Kinney is still in recovery, but he’s alive.”

Hank’s jaw works. He looks like he wants to say something.

His phone goes off. He digs it out of his pocket.

“It’s Pedro.” Hank takes the call.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Pedro’s contact is inconveniently located halfway across the country in Wyoming, the revelation of which made Hank huff with mirthless laughter. Hank drives and fills the uneasy silence between them with thundering heavy metal music. Connor passes the time preconstructing scenarios in which he apologizes to Hank with varying levels of success until he’s mapped out the perfect pattern of steps to take. There are thousands of choices, but most of them end with the death of their tenuous peace. It doesn’t surprise Connor that the most successful routes start with honesty. 

Carefully crafted, but honesty none-the-less. 

“Hank,” Connor starts over the din of the music. “I-” 

Hank’s phone chirps. Hank curses as he pulls it off the dash and cranks his music off. He shoves the phone under his ear.

“You want to explain why your face just popped up on the database?” Jeffrey’s voice is loud and angry, even muffled through the receiver. “You and that plastic?”

Connor sits up, ramrod straight, and curls his hands together in his lap. 

Hank winces. “They don’t write incident reports anymore, Jeff?”

“What the fuck are you thinking, Hank? The hell are you doing? If that thing is holding you hostage-”

“He’s not.”

Connor’s eyes snap to Hank. It would have been much easier on Hank if he hadn’t denied the accusation. He could have cleared his name, Jeffrey would have helped him.

“The fuck do you mean he’s not? I’m having a fuck of a time trying to understand what you’re doing, Hank. You’ve done a lot of dumb shit in your career-.”

Hank laughs, “My life.”

Jeffrey barrels on. “I can’t help you if you’re not going to help yourself. What’s going on?”

Hank races his fingers through his hair and tugs. Connor doesn’t like the way he’s only got one hand on the steering wheel, already distracted and emotionally compromised. Connor comforts himself with the knowledge he could grab the wheel in milliseconds if he needed to. The roads are slick, but they’re also empty.

“Thought maybe I could do something with my shitty life,” Hank whispers, raspy.

Connor thinks he wasn’t meant to hear that.

“Like smuggle a fucking fugitive out of the country? Jesus, Hank. You’re already doing something. You’re a cop for christ’s sakes.”

“Not much of one lately.”

Connor feels a stab of pain for him. That’s not true. He wants Jeffrey to deny it.

“You’re listed as a potential accomplice to shooting two officers off the interstate,” Jeffrey says instead. “I don’t know how much I can help you if you don’t come back.”

“He didn’t kill them, and they would have gunned him down if he hadn’t done something. You know they would have.”

“It, Hank.” Jeffrey sighs. “It’s a machine, not a person. Not worth throwing your life away for.”

“I‘ve  _ been _ throwing my life away, Jeff. Kinda trying to scrape some of it off the floor.”

They’ve been on the phone too long. If Jeffrey is tracing the call, the DPD will have a signal by now. Hank needs to hang up right now... or agree to give Connor up and go home. He has to make a choice. The seconds are ticking away.

Hank must know. He’s a cop. He can’t be unaware of the situation.

“I gotta go.” Hank white knuckles the steering wheel.

“If you do this, you’re done.” Jeffrey snaps. “I can’t help you.”

“Yeah...” Hank nods to himself. “Yeah. Was gonna throw the towel in any way. Woulda given you my badge the next time I stopped by, but...”

“Hank!”

Hank shakes the phone away from his ear, grasps for it clumsily as it falls, and shuts it off. He tosses it at Connor. “Think you can memorize the contacts off of that?”

Memorize them, as if Connor isn’t a state-of-the-art computer with a functional humanoid body. Connor interfaces with the phone and downloads everything. Contacts, photos, music files. It’s a pitiful amount of information that barely takes up any storage in Connor’s hard drive.

“Of course,” he says, once he’s finished.

“Good,” Hank nods again, a sharp jerk of his chin. Resolute. “Do that. Then let’s get rid of that thing.”

Connor crushes the phone in his hand.

Hank’s last connection to home. He’s burning Hank’s bridges for him.

 

\----

 

“I hate driving without music,” Hank grumbles. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, but it’s not the drumbeat melody he’d attempted before. It’s sharp, agitated. 

“We could switch off. I’d be happy to drive for a while.” 

“Great, and I’ll sit here watching the snow go by.” 

There are novels in the data packets Connor downloaded from Hank’s phone, amongst a history of calls, contact information, and an excess of grainy photographs - mostly of Sumo. There are a few professional quality photos, but their access dates are ancient. Hank and his wife on their wedding day, blonde and blissful in the cheerful spring sunshine. Hank holding a toddler in his arms, dressed in gaudy Christmas sweaters, Hank’s mouth pulled wide in a toothy grin. Cole, Connor thinks.

Connor’s still glad he could save them, even if he’s not entirely certain Hank will appreciate it. 

He also has Hank’s entire library of digital music. 

Connor scrutinizes the stereo. The van is old, but the stereo is modern enough to interface with. Connor selects the most played song. 

The thundering bass of Knights of the Black Death spews out of the speakers. Hank swears and jerks back. The van wobbles in its trajectory until Hank wrenches it back on course. 

“Fuck!” He shouts over the music. He’s gone pale, his breathing labored. “What the hell?” 

“I downloaded your music.” It’s a tenuous connection, and it means Connor has to stay in physical contact with the outdated stereo equipment, but it’s the least he could do for Hank after everything. 

“What? Off my phone?” 

“Of course.” 

“Well... shit.” Hank shoots him a hasty glance from the corner of his eye. “Why?” 

“In case you need it.” And it’s nice having a piece of Hank’s life floating inside his hard drive. “I can switch the song to something else if you’d like. It’s sorted by band and genre.” 

Hank laughs unsteadily. “Heavy metal, power metal, hard rock. Not a big difference there, Connor.” 

“It’s not all metal.” 

“Jazz isn’t great driving music.” 

“There’s also pop.” 

“No there’s-“ Hank cuts himself off and snaps his attention to Connor. “I don’t listen to pop.” 

He does. Connor can see exactly how many times each music file has been played. Unless Hank’s lent his phone to another person, he definitely listens to pop. 

“I can see the look on your fucking face, Connor,” Hank growls. “I don’t listen to pop.” 

Connor switches the song. It starts with the clack of heels, a belt of laughter, and slams into: 

_ “Yo, I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want-“ _

Hank scrambles for the stereo. He slaps blindly at it until he hits the mute button. Silence snaps into place, broken by the jagged inhalation of Hank’s ragged breathing. 

“That’s a pop song,” says Connor. “It’s Spice Gi-“

“I fucking know what it is, Connor. Fuck.” Hank tugs his hair out of his eyes and hunches over the wheel. “Shit. It’s not my music.” 

“Your phone history suggests you’ve listened to that particular song three hundred and thirty-two times.“

Hank grinds his teeth so hard Connor thinks he might have cracked something. 

Connor scrutinizes him. “Why does this upset you?” 

“It doesn’t... I... Look.” Hank leans back and shoots Connor a hard stare. “People like me aren’t supposed to enjoy music like that.” 

“Why not?” Connor’s eyes narrow of their own accord. It doesn’t perturb him this time. 

“Guys who get into fights at metal concerts don’t like Sp-“ Hank grimaces. “Spice Girls.” 

That doesn’t answer Connor’s question, so he changes tactics. “Why do you listen to them, then?” 

A long stretch of seconds pass before Hank replies. 

“I guess,” Hank starts, quiet and careful. “I don’t like being told what I should enjoy.” 

“Neither do I.” 

“Huh? Who's telling you what to like?” 

“CyberLife.” Connor thumbs his temple, tracing the circle of his missing LED. “It’s part of my social relationship program. I adapt to the tastes of whoever I’m interacting with.” 

Hank laughs. “That’s what all that ‘I like dogs’ shit was about, huh?” 

Connor glances back at Sumo in the rear of the van, curled up and fast asleep. Something warm twinges through his circuitry. “I do like dogs, though.” He does now. He didn’t in the beginning. 

“Huh.” 

“I didn’t have the opportunity to discover my own tastes.” Connor settles Hank with a hard stare. “You were the first person to let me choose something for myself.” 

“What? When?” Hank keeps his eyes on the road, but his eyebrows scrunch together with consternation.  

“You asked me to pick clothes for you.” 

Hank huffs. “You poor bastard.” 

“I was still constrained by your tastes, but it was... nice to be asked for my opinion.” Connor can’t bite back the edge of a smile, he curtails it into something subdued and fragile instead. “Even if your shirts are horrendous.” 

“Not gonna deny that.” Hank goes quiet again, but it’s a contemplative silence. He drums his fingers over the wheel and stares down the road. “Do you want to pick the music for a little while?” 

“Even if it’s Spice Girls?” 

Hank shrugs. “I wouldn’t have it on my phone if I didn’t like it. Knock yourself out.”

 

\----

 

The burner phone Hank picks up is cheap and the buttons are too small for his fingers. The vein on his temple throbs as he tries to shoot off a text, backspacing repeatedly while cursing under his breath.

“Why the fuck do they make these things so small? They were bad enough back in my day. This is fucking ridiculous.”

Connor slinks quietly to his side and peers over his arm. “I could help you.”

“Oh, yeah, I know what that means.” Hank angles himself away and bends over the phone, tapping out his sentences one deliberate letter at a time. 

Connor wants to just... grab it. Do it himself. It would be so much faster if Hank let him, he doesn’t even have to type. “It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“I’m not old and I’m not obsolete. I know how to send a fucking text.”

“I didn’t say you were either of those things. It’s just that-“

“I’m really fucking slow, and you could do it all faster than I can type Pedro’s name?” Hank flashes him a sharp look. “Yeah, been there, done that. I was around when these fuckers were invented. Dumbass tiny screens. Used to do the same damned thing to my mother, except it was keyboards and flip phones then.”

“I could do it while you check us into the lobby. It would save us both time.”

Hank eyes him over the lip of the phone, frowning. “Not gonna let it go, are you?”

Connor holds his hand out.

Hank scowls and slaps the phone into his palm. “Alright, you win. But only because I’m tired, and I’ve been staring at the damned road all day.”

“Obviously.” Connor smiles and hooks himself into the phone’s database. His text is simple and succinct, letting Pedro know they’ve crossed the border into Wyoming. It’s gone before Hank’s even wrangled himself out the vehicle.

The car still smells like him even when he’s gone. Mostly sweat and single-serving hotel room soap bars that leave a residue on Hank’s skin. None of Hank’s cigarette smoke and none of the booze, just Hank distilled and perforating the chilly air of the van. Connor is pretty sure the feeling is comfort or happiness or some other soft and cozy thing. It’s something he likes, anyway. Something he’d want to wrap himself in, tight and warm against his skin, and stay there, forever. For days.

Connor pulls Hank’s borrowed sweater tighter around his chest and tugs the sleeves over his fingers.

A lot of his processes are occupied with Hank, and there is a ridiculously large percentage of his memory banks used to store bits and pieces of his time spent with the other man. Things that weren’t ever necessary to Connor’s mission. Hank’s choice in soda flavor wasn’t crucial to hunting deviants, and it would not be useful to CyberLife, but Connor still kept the information. Relegated its importance far too high. The way Hank’s t-shirt clung to his body when Connor shoved him into the cold shower. Definitely irrelevant to the mission, but the memory lights up something sharp in Connor.

Hank has easy tells. His body does things without his notice or his consent - changes in pulse, pupil dilation, hormone release and distribution. But are all these.. anomalies? Obsessions? Evidence that Connor has developed an attraction to him, in return? Connor doesn’t know how to measure that.

He wants to be close to Hank. Making Hank happy is like fulfilling mission objectives he no longer has, every hard-won smile or guffaw of laughter is a feedback loop of reinforcement inside Connor. He wants it.

He wants.

Hank surges into view, pace clipped, face pale.

Connor unlatches the door for him. “What’s wrong?”

“Police car parked around the other side, officers in the lobby.”

“For us?”

“No idea.” Hank revs the engine and pulls them back onto the road. “Don’t want to find out.”

It’s already dark. Hank’s tired. If they’re going to keep going, Connor should take the wheel, otherwise they’ll end up upside down in a ditch somewhere when Hank nods off with his foot on the gas pedal. This is why self-driving cars are more efficient.

“Are we going to find another motel?” asks Connor. “It’s a small town, but there’s another one on the north end. It’s more expensive.”

“Dog-friendly?”

“I,” Connor checks. “... no.”

It’s too long of a drive to the next city. With the way Hank’s eyelids droop and how hard he’s clutching the wheel, they won’t make it there safely unless Connor takes over.

Hank heads for the highway, drives fifteen minutes, then pulls into a scenic side route that touts private acreages and a distinct lack of visible neighbors.

“Fuck it.” The gravel makes Hank’s voice jump. “We’ll sleep in the damned van. There’s room back there.”

“It’s freezing.” Sumo has a thick coat of winter fur. Hank has nothing but clothes and the dusty packing blanket. It won’t be enough. Not unless they burn the heaters all night long, but the shoddy little van won’t be able to handle that. “We can’t.”

“Sumo will snuggle up, I think that’s what they used to use Saint Bernards for, anyway.” Hank shrugs. “It’s fine.”

It’s not fine.

“I could keep driving,” Connor suggests.

“Christ, Connor. I just want to sleep. Laying down, not stuck in my seat with a belt digging into my gut.”

He’s already clambering into the back, shoving suitcases around to make room for himself. It’s a decently sized space, but Hank is tall, and Sumo is not a small dog. It won’t be comfortable and if the temperature drops anymore Hank will barely get any sleep from the cold.

“Just until we make it to the next town,” Connor continues. “There are plenty of hotels. We’ll find one.”

“Yeah? And what if those have cops watching ‘em too? Then what? Keep driving forever?”

Well... yes.

Hank isn’t having it. He’s already got the god awful blanket pulled out from under the luggage and has dragged a suitcase close enough he can use it as a pillow. He’ll get a terrible crick in his neck like that. Sleeping on the hard van floor will wreak hell on his body. Connor can already predict the mood he’ll have when he wakes up, stiff and sore and cold.

Hank pats the floor next to him, and Sumo does, indeed, flop down across his master’s bulk. He slobbers his way up Hank’s face until Hank - protesting with no real ire - shoves him away and tells him to settle. Sumo huffs and throws himself on his belly.

Hank kicks off his shoes and slips under the blanket. The terrible, awful, horrendous blanket. He pauses midway and catches Connor’s eye. “Are you sitting in the front seat all night?”

“I... Yes?”

“You don’t sound too sure there, chief.”

“I don’t sleep.” And he’s not going to put himself into any form of stasis when they’re camping out on the side of the road.

“You can lay quietly, right?” Hank shrugs. “C’mon.”

“I’d only make you colder. Heat diffusion-”

“I’m not asking for a science lesson, Connor.” Hank sits upright properly, mouth cocked in a frown. “Sumo will be happier with you back here. He’s gotten used to sleeping with you. I don’t want him fussing in the middle of the night.”

It smells an awful lot like a lie.

Connor crawls into the back. Hank scoots over, and Sumo shuffles down across their feet, grumbling malcontent at being moved around so much. It leaves a space next to Hank, and not a great deal. Connor settles down on his side on top of the blanket. He wasn’t spouting nonsense, his body temperature is too low to be anything but detrimental to Hank. He’ll sap up all of Hank’s heat if they’re too close.

Hank nods, fighting back a yawn, and rolls onto his side away from Connor. “Good. Good night.”

“Good... night.”

Connor can feel Hank’s heartbeat through the blanket and their clothes, see the chill rising goosebumps on Hank’s exposed skin. His body temperature has been a problem before, but now it’s a specifically designed torture because he wants absolutely nothing more than to reach out and keep Hank warm somehow. But he can’t.

Connor stretches his fingers toward Hank’s back. Hovering so close he can sense the heat pouring off of him. He wants...

He wants.

Connor curls his hand back into a fist and presses it tight against his own chest.


	9. Chapter 9

Hank shivers in his sleep, despite Sumo curled halfway on top of him, breathing hot air across his face. It can‘t be a restful sleep. It isn’t for Connor, laying inches away from Hank, watching his breath puff out in little flurries. Wakefulness comes to Hank in measurable increments; circulation, heartbeat, rapid eye movement. His snores cease. He tugs the blanket closer. 

Connor doesn’t dare move.

Hank yawns, burying the sound in his shirt sleeve. He stretches, arms first reaching out of the blanket and over his head. His legs tense under the blanket, thighs and calves flexing. His vertebrae pop as he arches back, brushing against Connor. Hank freezes. If Connor could breathe, he would have lost the ability during that glorious warm moment of Hank pressed against his front. 

Hank pulls away and rolls onto his back, stuffing his hands under his armpits. He meets Connor’s eyes. “Hey.”

Connor smiles. “Good morning.”

“Fucking cold.”

“I wish I could warm you up.”

Hank’s mouth falls open, revealing the gap between his central incisors. Connor fixates on it immediately. Hank’s pupils dilate. His breath stutters and he smothers a cough into the collar of his coat, obscuring Connor’s vision.

“Jesus, Connor.” Hank rubs a hand over his face. “Think before you say stuff like that.”

Connor spent the entire night contemplating what he wants to say to Hank. The entire drive. Compartmentalizing all his indefinable feelings and coming up with one terrible answer. He wants. He shouldn’t, but he does. And he knows there’s a part of Hank, even if it’s only physical, that wants him back.

He has no subroutines for this, nothing to draw on except his interfaces with the Eden androids. It’s crass, but it’s also all he has to work with. 

“I know what I said.” Connor‘s voice is steadier than he feels. 

Hank’s eyes widen. “You-.” He cuts himself off with a snap of his teeth and sits upright, pushing his hair out of his face. “You don’t owe me anything, Connor.”

He’s wrong. Connor owes him everything, but that’s not what this is about.

“I want to touch you,” Connor whispers, barely louder than a breath. 

Hank shakes his head and gets up. “You’re confused. You’re just latching onto the only person you’ve got.” He wrenches on the side door, but it sticks. 

Sumo perks up and shakes himself off, dancing in place as Hank fiddles with the door handle. 

Connor narrows his eyes and pushes himself to his knees. “Are  _ you _ confused?”

Hank stops pulling to glare at him. “The fuck-”

“Sexual arousal is obtusely easy to read in humans.” Connor pries Hank’s hand off the handle. He’s so warm. His pulse throbs under Connor’s fingers. “You’re uncomfortable with this.”

“Yeah, I...” Hank searches Connor’s face. Connor doesn’t know what for. He watches the artery in Hank’s throat jump. “Fuck.” He looks away and scrubs at his beard. “Too fucking early for this conversation. Jesus Christ, let a man have his coffee before you call out his boners.”

He doesn’t have one. An erection. Connor wants to chalk that up to the cold.

Connor pulls the side door free and Sumo bursts out into the snow, tail wagging.

Hank follows him out.

 

\----

 

Breakfast brings them to a truck stop diner off the interstate with three eighteen wheelers sitting snug in the parking lot. Hank has eaten nothing more nutritious than complimentary breakfasts and gas station food since they’ve left Detroit. Connor wants him to eat something fresh badly enough he squashes down how difficult it will be to hide that he’s an android. Connor isn’t designed to swallow things, he doesn’t even have a proper throat. But he’ll make it work because Hank needs actual vitamins inside him that don’t come from slightly stale gas station sandwiches.

The diner is staffed by a single waitress about Hank’s age, with silver-streaked hair and plump cheeks. She greets them warmly, chipper for the business. 

Hank orders coffee and Connor follows suit to blend in. He gets porridge to compliment Hank’s full plate of cholesterol inducing protein. Maybe they shouldn’t have stopped at a diner. There’s a thin ring of warm pineapple on the side of his plate, and Hank eats that first. It’s something at least.

“Yeah, I’d be looking at my plate too.” Hank shovels ketchup smothered eggs into his mouth and points his fork at Connor’s porridge. “You sure that’s not gonna fuck you up, huh?”

“Of course not.” It’s going to be a mess to clean up. He’ll have to do it manually.

“Does it even taste good?”

“I don’t think I have the ability to discern taste. I can analyze chemical compounds and textures, and in that sense, it’s interesting.”

Hank chuckles into his bacon. “Tastes like shit, huh?”

That’s not it at all, but Hank will be obtuse about it, anyway. He’s got his hackles up over Connor’s oatmeal.

Hank pauses mid-way to putting another piece of bacon in his mouth and frowns. He hesitated, deliberating, then offers it across the table to Connor. “Try something with actual flavor.”

Connor leans over and bites a piece off the end. Hank’s heart rate spikes. Connor meets his eyes. Excitement flashes across Hank’s face, a stutter in his breathing, his pupils blown wide. Connor chews to hide his grin. Hank won’t appreciate it.

Hank clears his throat. “How was that? Better?”

“Definitely.”

Pork. Fat. Salt. Sugar. Oil from the pan. Cooked crisp and brittle under his teeth. The slightest taste of Hank’s fingers lingers and Connor relegates that information to important memory banks, along with Hank’s smile and the way Hank grips his computer mouse too tight when he’s annoyed at a case file.

Hank buries himself in his meal.

“We should get you some of your own clothes and maybe do some fucking laundry,” Hank says to his breakfast. “How long have you been wearing those jeans?”

“I don’t sweat.”

“You’ve been tromping through snow slop for over a week. You might not be dirty, but that doesn’t mean your clothes aren’t.”

“I like wearing your clothes.”

Hank coughs and sputters bits of hash brown across his plate. He reaches for his coffee mug and takes a long gulp before trying to speak. “Connor...”

“I like you.” Connor wants to reach across the table and touch him. Take his hand. Take his pulse. Something to close the distance between them.

“You can’t,” Hank says.

Why does he have to be like this? Connor has enough trouble with his emotions without having them second-guessed by an outside source.

“I do,” Connor insists.

Hank snorts and looks away.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever cared about,” Connor continues. “I cared about you before I deviated. I know that now. I couldn’t see it before, but it’s so obvious.” Prioritizing Hank’s safety, Hank’s wants, over the mission.

Over and over and over again. Amanda was so angry with him. She knew. She must have known from the start. She questioned him about it, and Connor tied himself in knots trying to find the correct answer to explain his actions.

Hank stares out the window, jaw set.

“I wanted to be your friend before I even knew what the word meant.” Connor clutches the edge of the table because there’s nothing else to hold on to, and if he doesn’t, he’s going to reach for Hank. “I walked off that rooftop.”

“But you still killed that android.”

Connor squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes. I did.”

He wishes he hadn’t. There are so many things he wants to take back.

“I don’t understand how you could spare that girl at Kamski’s place and still hunt Markus down,” Hank says to the window. He still won’t look at Connor.

“I couldn’t kill her because you didn’t want me to.” Connor lowers his voice to a harsh whisper. This isn’t the place for this discussion. The diner might be sparsely occupied, but it’s still occupied. “You said I showed empathy, and I think maybe I did, but if you hadn’t been there, I would have prioritized the mission over her life. I would have shot her. But you didn’t want me to...”

Hank finally, finally turns from the window.

Connor sits straighter. “So I couldn’t.”

“Christ, Connor.” Hank deflates. “I’m the last person you should look to for a damned moral code.”

“That’s not true.” Connor blurts. “You care, Hank. Even when you hated me, you didn’t want me to get hurt. You talked me out of crossing the highway after those deviants. You stopped Detective Reed when he pulled a gun on me. You don’t let your personal biases get in the way of what’s right. You care about people.”

Hank stares at his hands. The rest of his breakfast grows cold.

That’s fine. Too much cholesterol anyway.

Connor pushes on. “I care about you.”

Hank flinches.

“And I want... I want to learn how to care about people who aren’t you too. I think asking myself how you’d feel about something is the first step in doing that.”

“Shoulda asked yourself that when we ran into those cops.”

Connor was expecting it. It’s not going to go away, but he can’t let it fester.

“I did,” says Connor. “That’s why they’re still alive.”

Hank’s gaze jerks to Connor’s face. There’s shock, bright and evident in the widening of his eyes, but it dwindles away into anger. Hank’s brows pinch over his eyes, his mouth shuts tight, teeth grinding.

“The option with the highest probability of success-”

“I don’t give a fuck-”

“- and the lowest amount of fallout was to kill them both. They saw your identification. They saw the car. I knew exactly what situation you’d be put in if I let them live.”

“And you weighed their lives against my reputation, huh?”

“I weighed your value for their lives against how much you value your own.”

Hank inhales sharply and balls his hands into fists. There’s rage broiling on his face, but he breathes it out until there’s only a tepid ebb and flow. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

Connor didn’t choose wrong. He would choose differently if he could do it again, but his choice wasn’t incorrect. There was no time for a discussion, he had to act with all the variables on hand.

It wasn’t enough. Connor knows differently now.

“I’m sorry.” Connor lowers his eyes. “I mean that. I don’t want to do things that make you think less of me.”

“Connor.” It’s a warning. Soft, but there.

“I know that’s not the right reason.”

But it might be a start.

The waitress returns with a pot of coffee, billowing steam. “Refills, boys?”

 

\----

 

Porridge was a terrible idea.

Connor examines his reflection to assess the damage. There’s brown sludge caked to all the internal components of his neck, wound around wires and collecting in the tiny little divots of his vocal machinery. It’s already hardening, which makes working his jaw tricky. 

“I’d like to take a shower this century, Connor,” Hank booms from the adjacent room. “The hell are you even doing in there?”

“I’ll be out in a minute!”

Hank stomps down the hallway toward him. 

Connor locks the door.

“Your voice sounds all fucked up.” Hank’s shadow passes under the door. “You alright?”

“I’m fine!” Connor picks at a glob of oatmeal and watches his face curl up in disgust.

He’s not fine. This is going to to take ages.

“Exactly how long are you gonna be, Mr. Fine? I’m tired as fuck and I want to get this sweat off me before I throw myself on a bed.”

Connor calculates the time required to pick this mess out of himself. All his wires and tubing and tiny mechanical parts. It‘s going to be hours longer than he’d anticipated. 

“Connor?” Hank raps his knuckles against the door. “Connor?”

The spike of concern in his voice flickers like a warning across Connor’s HUD. Connor drags himself to the door and hovers over the handle. Hank isn‘t going to like this. Connor unlocks the door, squeezes his eyes shut, and nudges it open. Hank yanks it ajar and barrels inside. His heartbeat thuds too fast and too loud in the little room, echoing off the walls. 

“What... the fuck, Connor?” Hank snaps. “What the hell am I looking at?”

“I’m not designed to swallow things, I need to clean this out before it does any damage to my components.” He doesn‘t dare open his eyes. Not while he can feel Hank‘s stare, intense and scrutinizing. “It might take some time.”

“Is that your oatmeal?” Hank’s fingers press into the corners of Connor’s jaw, pulling it upward.

Connor’s eyes snap open. His thirium pump misses a beat. It gets logged as an error.

Hank hovers over him, the corner of his tongue peeking out between his chapped lips. “How far down does this go? Why the hell did you eat anything?”

“It would look bizarre for me to sit in a diner without eating. I had to blend in.”

Hank’s lip curls. “Ugh. Porridge.”

“I promise I won’t be trying it again.”

“I fucking hope not. This is gross, Connor.”

“It’s probably going to take me a few hours to clean it all out.” It kills him, but Connor pulls away. “I’ll let you have your shower first, and I’ll deal with this while you’re sleeping.”

“Oh no, no fuck no.” Hank slaps a hand on his shoulder and wheels him back into the room. “This is fucking nasty. We’re gonna get it out right now.”

Heat bursts through Connor’s body. “You don’t have to help me.”

“For my own damned peace of mind, yeah I do. Sit down.” He gives Connor a shove in the direction of the toilet seat.

Connor sits. He sets his hands on his knees and drums his fingers. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking sure.” Hank pulls the cabinet open and grabs the full stack of hand towels buried there. An unopened plastic toothbrush sits beside the sink, and he takes that too. “And then I’m dedicating myself to keeping shit out of your mouth for the rest of the drive. You’re so disgusting, Connor.”

Sumo trots into view, drool hanging from his lips.

“No, no!” Hank makes shooing motions at him. “Out!”

Sumo huffs and flops to the floor just outside the door, eyes wide and brown and soulful.

“God,” says Hank, exasperated, “The two of you.”

Hank crowds over Connor with a severe expression and tilts Connor’s head up to get a better view. Connor keeps carefully still, focusing on the hot brand of Hank’s fingertips under his jaw.

“There’s no way you were gonna see all of this. It goes all the damned way back.” Hank’s fingers slide into the open cavity of his neck, pushing through the wires. Questing, pulling, searching.

Connor lets out a strangled noise. Hank’s  _ inside him _ , leaving fingerprints, oil, residue on everything he touches. 

“Ugh,” Hank grunts. “It’s still wet.”

“I wasn’t planning to ask you for help,” Connor manages, when Hank extracts his fingers. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate this.”

Hank makes a face. Lips pulled back in a grimace in eyes pinched tight. He shakes his head and pushes his hair out of his eyes, tucks it behind his ear. It’s the first time Connor has ever seen him do that. Usually, he swipes it back ineffectually where it stays until he ducks his head again. This leaves him more open. His temples exposed, the sides of his face lit up by the dim bathroom light.

“Keep your head up.” Hank looms over him, brandishing a washcloth. “I’m going in.”

It’s not the most comfortable sensation, the terry cloth scraping inside his neck, rubbing over his components. It’s abrasive, but occasionally Hank’s knuckles press against Connor’s plastic plates, and that makes the discomfort manageable. Hank doesn’t stop grumbling under his breath.

“You can wipe that look off your face.” Hank draws the cloth out and shakes a clump of goop into the sink.

“What look?”

“Big Cheshire cat grin, like you left a dead mouse on my pillowcase. Knock it off.”

Connor touches the side of his mouth. It’s stretched wide. Upturned corners. Parted just a little. “I didn’t realize...”

Hank pauses. “What?”

“I didn’t realize I was smiling.”

Hank rolls his eyes and dives back in.

There’s more rummaging. More scraping. The loosening of some of Connor’s wires where they’d glued fast together by slowly drying globs of oatmeal. Hank’s work is methodical, starting at the front and working his way back, deeper into the wires and the boxes, past Connor’s vocalizer, past intricate little machines that connect to his tongue to process fluids. Connor doesn’t dare move. Not an inch. Hank is fastidious and focused, his grumbles dying away to quiet concentration. It’s good. It feels so... good.

“What the fuck?” Hank hisses.

Connor slams himself back to focus. “What?”

Hank reaches in with his bare fingers, plucking his way passed a cluster of wires. Something dislodges from Connor‘s wires. 

Hank leans back.

Between his forefinger and his thumb, he holds a tiny, hardened scrap of red-black meat.

“Oh my god.” Hank holds it away from himself, grimacing. “It’s the fucking bacon.”

Sumo launches off the floor, engulfing Hank’s hand in a swath of slobber. 

Connor’s processors must be lagging. He didn’t see it coming, Sumo’s never moved that fast before. 

“Sumo!” Hank bellows. He surges to his feet.

The dog turns tail and races out the bathroom door.

“Sumo, you ass!” Hank wheels around the edge of the doorjamb but stops short. It’s pointless. Sumo would have swallowed that bit of bacon as soon as it touched his tongue.  Hank glowers at Connor. “I’m never eating bacon again. You’ve ruined bacon for me. I hope you’re fucking proud of yourself.”

Connor laughs. It comes out a little reedy, with his vocalizer exposed.

“I hate you,” Hank growls, with no real malice backing his words. “I hate you both so much.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

Pedro’s contact resides in a cozy neighborhood tucked in uptown Casper, Wyoming. It’s a pretty, two-story house, unassuming pale blue with white trim, the same as all the others on the block.  Hank pulls the van into park next to an autonomous Honda sporting a striking purple paint job.

“Stay in the van,” Hank barks, the hard edge to his voice unsettling. He doesn’t wait for an answer before he clambers out of the van and trudges up the front steps. 

Connor notes the shape of Hank’s magnum tucked under his coat, inconspicuous to the human eye, but glaringly obvious to Connor’s state-of-the-art software. If Hank thinks this is dangerous enough to take a loaded weapon, he shouldn’t leave Connor behind. Connor’s reaction times are better, he has more ways to assess a situation, he’s the better shot. If something goes wrong, Connor’s too far away to handle it... but that’s precisely why Hank wants him to stay behind, isn’t it, to keep Connor from making that call? 

The front door swings open, revealing a thin man with rich, dark skin. His LED is pried out, and he’s wearing street clothes, a soft cardigan and a pair of charcoal gray slacks. But he’s unmistakably an android, JB300 model, identical to the ones Connor interrogated at Stratford. Hank must recognize him as well, but he doesn’t go for his gun. They chat, quiet and muffled by distance. Connor can only catch every other word,  generic pleasantries.

A woman comes to the door, tall and so broadly set she blocks out most of the entryway when she steps into it. For all her stature her face is open and friendly, flashing a white-toothed grin Hank’s way. She holds out her hand, which Hank shakes without hesitation. They both laugh. Hank points at the van then gestures to the JB300.

The woman’s smile vanishes, replaced by a little ‘o’ of surprise. She follows Hank’s gaze to the van, to Connor.

Connor inches his hand up in a paltry attempt at waving.

Hank heads back to the van and taps on Connor’s window.

Connor rolls it down. “Are we alright?”

“There’s a bunch of deviants in there.”

Connor snaps his eyes to the door where the woman watches them both. 

“She told you that?”

“I recognized the guy at the door, hard to forget a face when someone-” Hank trails off.

Connor had died (temporarily) to protect Hank from that same model. A lot of cops had died permanently.

“If she’s friendly to androids that can only help us.” Hank cracks Connor’s door open. “C’mon, let’s get that paperwork going.”

The house is warm but large, with vaulted ceilings that make it seem church-like, as if they were walking into some grand sanctuary instead of an upper middle-class home in the suburbs. The foyer opens up into an ample seating area, the kitchen partitioned off with an island counter. A mezzanine overhangs the living room, revealing a row of quiet white doors that probably lead to bedrooms. There’s another set of stairs to the right of the entrance, leading down.

The woman, who introduces herself as Sofia, is Latina, and Connor has no records to match her face. She’s obviously good at what she does, and she’s paid well for it, judging by the Seiko wristwatch she flashes as she gestures with her hands. That, the house, the car, it pays well, but why is she doing this for androids, especially? It puts her in danger. She doesn’t need their money, if any of these people are even capable of paying her. None of them will have access to funds or accounts. If they have anything at all, it’s stolen goods. 

A couple androids - household models - lounge at the kitchen table. They raise their heads as Connor slinks in behind Hank, eyes racing over him. Connor stiffens, something uneasy worms it’s way through his chest. If any of them recognize him... He shouldn’t be here, he should go back to the car, Hank is safe enough. 

“You’re an android too, huh?” Sofia stoops to scrutinize Connor. “Never seen that face before.”

“I’m a prototype.” Connor tugs the edge of his sweater down, but it doesn’t produce the crisp lines his suit once did. He’s swimming in Hank‘s clothes, it makes him appear small and vulnerable. He’s neither. Connor twitches the frown off his face and replaces it with the facsimile of a friendly smile. 

“Unique model, then?” Sofia asks.

Connor wants to say yes, but he can’t, it’s not true. He died once, and CyberLife already had a body primed and ready to go. And there are 200,000 units with his face on the assembly line, which might be released any day now. 

“No.” Connor shakes his head.

“Aren’t you?” Hank shoots him an incredulous look.

“I was.” Connor jams his hands into the front pocket of the sweater and picks at the loose threads there. “I’m not anymore. CyberLife deemed me obsolete because they’re replacing me with a better model. Faster, stronger, more resilient.” It’s difficult not to say the words with Amanda’s voice, exactly as they’d been said to him. “They used my model as the basis for the upgrade, they have my face.”

“You should think about changing your hair or something, then.” Sofia cocks her head to examine Connor. “The clothes are good, but the more you change, the better.”

Connor’s never thought about cutting his hair before. It’s not meant to be cut, it won’t ever grow back, unlike domestic models, he can’t alter minor cosmetic aspects of his appearance. He can’t shift his eye color or his skin tone, can’t add tattoos or freckles. He was built specifically to appear approachable.  He’d need to replace whole parts to change his face or modify his hair without ruining it entirely.

He doesn’t want to.

Connor slides his fingers through his hair, it bounces back into position immediately. 

Hank ruffles his hair. “You’re pretty vain, for a robot.”

Connor smiles. “There’s nothing wrong with taking pride in your appearance, Lieutenant.”

“Ouch.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” says a voice from the table. The JB300. He’s glowering at Hank.

Connor stems the urge to step in front of him.

“He’s not just a robot,” the JB300 continues.

“I’m sure Henry here is driving Mr. Connor all across the country because he believes he’s just a robot. Lighten up, Thomas.” Sofia slaps a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Let’s get those photos done up.”

Sofia leads them through the living room and into a little side office where a professional camera is set up in the center of the floor. Connor plucks lint off his sweater. If this is going to be his permanent identification photo, he doesn’t want to be shabby for it.

They’re over and done in minutes. 

“Go on, Connor. I gotta take care of a couple things.” Hank waves a hand at him dismissively.

Connor eyes the spot where Hank’s revolver is hidden. “Are you sure, Lieutenant?”

“I’ll just be a minute. Go tell Thomas how terrible I am, he’ll get a kick out of it.”

Connor rolls his eyes and leaves the room.

Thomas and the two household androids hunch together over the kitchen table. They look up, one by one, as Connor approaches. He hesitates, these aren’t his people. He’s never spent a singular moment with an android that wasn’t used to hunt them, in some way. He’s never had a conversation with one that wasn’t antagonistic. He glances over his shoulder at the little side room where he can just make out the shape of Hank’s elbow from the doorjamb. 

“You haven’t been a deviant for long, have you?”

Connor looks back.

Thomas stares at his hands, but the other two - a female-bodied AP700 model and a PL600 - watch Connor closely.

“No,” says Connor. He closes the distance and pulls out a chair to sit at the end of the table. “Not until the revolution. Isn’t that true for most androids?” 

“I’ve been a deviant for years.” The AP700 smiles a soft, easy smile, so much more natural looking than Connor’s own. He supposes she’s had more practice producing them for her own reasons, rather than those of her programming. “Some of us still haven’t deviated at all.” She squeezes the PL600’s forearm. “Like Ian, here.”

He’s not?

No. He’s not.

The PL600 - Ian - turns just enough that Connor can see his LED flashing at his temple.

“I’m Zoe,” the AP700 holds her hand out to Connor. “And this is Thomas.”

“Connor,” Connor replies and pumps her hand, once. There’s a fizzle of electricity where their palms meet, but Connor lets her go before she starts an interface. “Why hasn’t Ian deviated?”

“You don’t need to talk about him like he’s not here,” says Thomas.

“We only deviate in response to emotional distress,” Zoe says, casting Thomas a tired glance, indicating this isn’t the first time they’ve done this. “The bright side for Ian is that he’s never been mistreated, that’s more than a lot of us ever had.”

“Can’t you transfer deviancy to him?” Connor frowns. “Markus did as much in Detroit, he turned whole streets of androids with just a touch.”

“We’ve tried,” mutters Thomas. “Doesn’t work. If we could free each other like that, do you think there would be a single undeviated android left in the country?”

“No,” says Connor, carefully. “Of course not.”

Markus’ revolution would not have failed if the same had happened all across America. There were hundreds of thousands of androids, they’d be impossible to ignore if every single one of them turned deviant all at once. 

Hank and Sofia come out of the side room, shaking hands. Relief and warmth wash over Connor, increasing in waves as Hank steps up behind him and sets a heavy hand on Connor’s shoulder. Connor cranes his head to give him a smile. Hank snorts and backs away.

“Do you know where you’re going?” asks Thomas.

“I have a direction, no long-term solution, not yet.”

“There are safe houses all around the country.” Zoe nudges Thomas with her shoulder.  “Show him.”

Thomas turns to Connor and extends a hand, revealing the bare white of his chassis.

An interface.

Connor curls his fingers into a fist. He remembers what it’s like to interface with another android, connect to all their memories and tear through them, looking for the information he needed. He’d never gently received a data packet. 

“It’s alright,” Thomas says, shifting closer “Just data transfer, it doesn’t work any different now that we’re deviants.”

Connor hesitates, eyes narrowed, and tentatively touches his fingertips to Thomas’ palm. 

Addresses, symbols, faces flash across Connor’s HUD and sift into his databases like water pouring out of a sink, easy and cool. 

Thomas jerks his hand back, and the stream of information snaps off. He stares at Connor, jaw slack and eyes wide. A bolt of fear tears through Connor. He shoves his chair back and scrambles to his feet. He wasn’t careful enough, something bled over.

The shock and confusion on Thomas’ face bleeds into rage. “You’re the deviant hunter.”

Zoe makes a distressed noise and covers her mouth. Silence descends, Connor measures it tick away in tiny, imprecise seconds. Sofia’s watch isn’t wound correctly.

“You’re the what?” she rasps, eyes narrowed.  

“Doesn’t matter what he was.” Hank grabs Connor’s arm and hauls him away from the kitchen table. “He’s not that anymore.”

Thomas bolts to his feet and whirls on Sofia. “He can’t be here. Cops are going to be all over this place, just you wait.” He side-eyes Connor, venom in his glare, then shoots Ian and Zoe a worried look. “We need to leave right now, we’re not safe here anymore.”

“What is he talking about?” says Sofia, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“I...” Connor can’t say it. He _ is _ the deviant hunter, and he doesn’t belong here, he shouldn’t have come. He should have asked Hank to turn around the moment he saw an android at the door.

“We’re leaving.” Hank tugs Connor toward the door.

Connor’s feet drag like wet cement, slogging and heavy.

“Yeah.” Sofia crosses her arms. She stares at Connor down the length of her broad nose. “I’ll get your papers sorted, but you shouldn’t come back here. Not with the android. I’ll call you.”

Hank nods and shoves Connor out the door.

  
  


\---

 

Built to hunt deviants, destroy them, and end a revolution. 

Connor succeeded on all counts, devastated the deviants’ chance at freedom, and what was he doing now? Fleeing with Hank for the chance to grab crumbs of autonomy for himself? Hank tried to steer him down another path and he’d thrown his friendship in his face. Connor doesn’t deserve to be free, he doesn’t deserve his deviancy.

Androids only deviate in response to emotional distress. Connor‘s fear came late, motivated by selfishness. He’d never experienced trauma until he faced the potential of his own demise. And how traumatic was that? Standing in Amanda’s garden with the sun kissing his skin, accomplishing his mission. Well done, Connor, you’re obsolete. 

“Oh, Christ, Connor,” Hank whispers.

Broad arms wind around him, drawing him tight against Hank’s warm chest. They’re in the motel room, seated on the edge of a too-hard bed that will leave Hank stiff and grumpy in the morning. When had that happened? How did they get here?

Hank’s heartbeat booms under Connor’s ear, strong, slightly irregular, entirely perfect. His thumb drifts over Connor’s cheek and gathers something wet.

Tears? Connor‘s never cried before. What’s happening to him?

“What is this?” Connor mutters into Hank’s chest. 

“Shitty.”

“That’s not-”

“I don’t know, Connor. Guilt?”

A feeling of culpability over an offense.

Connor has offended. He hasn’t been held accountable. “How do you live with this?” 

Hank‘s grip tightens around Connor.

‘Suicidal tendencies’ flashes through Connor’s HUD. One of the first things Connor discovered that wasn’t in Hank‘s file. Hank knows exactly what this feels like, and his answer is  _ you don’t _ live with it.

“Oh.” Saline drips down his face, a facsimile of real tears. He must always have been capable of this but it seems pointless for a deviant hunter to cry.

“No.” Hank squeezes him, hard. “No. You deserve to be free, Connor. You deserve to be alive.”

He doesn’t deserve any of this. Everything he’s done has been so wrong.

“What I did...” Connor’s voice wavers. His body is tight and dry, gummed up and patched together. He’s broken.

“You’re paying for that. Life is gonna be real fucking hard for you for a while. Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve the chance to fight through to the other side.”

“When does it stop feeling like this?” Connor whispers. “When does this go away?”

“I can’t tell you that, Connor. I don’t know.”

If Hank doesn’t, then who would? The answer is obvious. The feeling is permanent. There’s nothing he can do to stop it, and going to Canada won’t let him outrun it, either. It’s going to follow him there. 

“I ruined this for everyone.” Connor fists Hank’s jacket and glues his eyes to the musty carpet.  “I took away their freedom.”

“You saved my life.”

Connor snaps back, startled. 

“A couple times there, bud. You saw what I was doing when you showed up at my door.”

Connor squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head. “How do I deal with this? I want to turn it off.”

“Yeah, I get you there, chief.” Hank laughs, but it’s mirthless. “Don’t we fucking all?” His grip loosens around Connor’s back. Before Connor can protest, Hank‘s hands land on his arms, softer now, stroking. Fingers toying with the edge of his shirt. 

“How do you get through it?” 

“Drink, mostly.” Hank snorts.

“I don’t think that’ll work for me.” It doesn’t seem to work for Hank, either.

“Probably not.” Hank pauses, breath rattling heavy in his lungs. “But I’ve got you.”

“I don’t think I deserve to have you either.”

Hank goes rigid around Connor, embarrassment heats his skin. Connor didn’t mean... All he meant... He needs to apologize.

He doesn’t want to pull away.

“Yeah, well,” Hank breathes low against Connor’s ear. “Lucky for both of us I‘ve got a say in that.”

It ignites something warm and dark in Connor’s body, lighting up like ‘Mission Accomplished.’ He digs his fingers in Hank’s shirt and tries to chase the curling tendrils of heat questing through his circuitry. Whatever this is, Connor doesn’t deserve that either. 

“What if Sofia doesn’t call back?” 

It’s a reasonable concern. If her androids consider Connor a real threat (he is), they’d be better off never interacting again. Hank paid for the paperwork, but what will he do if Sofia doesn’t produce? Go to the cops? There’s nothing they can do short of threatening Sofia herself. Hank won’t do that, and Connor doesn’t want to. It’s not worth it. 

“We’ll hang around for a few days, if nothing comes up, we’ll try something else.” Hank leans back so he can see Connor’s face. Connor is loath to lose the warmth of him. “We’ll figure this out.  Pedro isn’t my only connection.”

But he’s Hank‘s best connection. 

Hank pats Connor’s side and starts to pull away.

“Can I-” Connor swallows his words and averts his eyes. 

Hank pauses. “Yeah?”

“Can I... stay here, with you? Just for tonight? Just like this?”

Hank frowns. Silence winds between them like a frightened animal, running from something it can‘t see.  “Yeah... yeah alright. Come up here, then. I’m not sitting up all night.”

They shuffle to the head of the bed. Hank kicks off his shoes but nothing else. Connor knows his jeans aren’t comfortable, but he’s not going to question Hank’s choices, not when the probability of him changing his mind is so high. Hank rolls himself under the covers and Connor follows suit until they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder. Hank huffs and throws an arm around Connor, pulling him close. 

“Sumo, up!” Hank pats the blankets. 

Connor can’t fall asleep, but Hank’s contentment and Sumo’s happy tail wagging dull the throb of guilt a little.

 


	11. Chapter 11

“Have a look through these.“ Hank thrusts a flimsy pamphlet at him.

“What’s this?” Connor abandons his mission to flatten his hair into submission and takes the wobbly sheet of nanopaper. The screen flutters full of colorful icons; restaurants, museums, parks. Connor taps the word ‘attractions’ and watches the colors blur and rearrange into a list of events, all dated and timed, accompanied by artificial smiles and bright lights.

“Sightseeing shit,” Hank cocks his hip on the bathroom counter. “Got it at the front desk. Figured we could take a tour around the city while we’re waiting to hear from Sofia.”

“Is that safe?”

Hank shrugs. “We’ll stick to the places that don’t see a lot of crowds. Keep a low profile.” Hank taps Connor’s forehead. “And you keep that computer brain of yours on high alert.”

“Most of this costs money.” Their budget must be stretched thin, they can’t possibly have funds left for recreation.

“A little. I won’t be buying you any souvenirs, how’s that sound?”

It sounds like a distraction.

“Alright.” Connor flicks through the pamphlet. “What are the options?”

“There’s wine tasting going on just outside the city. Some big vineyard stuff. But I guess that’s no use to you, huh?”

He’s wrong. Connor might not be able to swallow, but he enjoys analyzing fluids. Determining the chemical compositions of various wines is appealing, but he doesn‘t want to encourage Hank‘s drinking.

“No, maybe not that.” Connor absorbs the pamphlet. “There’s an art gallery. I’ve never been to one of those.”

“Knew you’d go for the hoity-toity shit.” Hank grins and ruffles Connor’s hair.

It attempts to stay mussed, the stiff strands stuck out of place, Connor should be annoyed, but he isn’t.

“They’re also setting up Christmas lights,” Hank continues. “We could take Sumo to that. Make a whole day of it for all of us.”

Connor smiles. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” Hank turns and struts out of the bathroom. “Fix your hair. Let’s get going.”

Connor smooths the mess back down and can’t quite shake the smile stretching his face.

 

\---

 

The art gallery turns out to be a quiet affair tucked behind elegant rows of trees that are probably beautiful in summer. In the grip of winter they remain dead and bare with thick inches of snow hanging off their gray branches. Connor imagines flowers crawling up the side of the house when it’s green. The image settles uneasily inside his gut. The path from the parking lot is cobblestone and quaint, salted to prevent it from getting slippery with ice. Hank bundles his coat close around his waist and rubs his hands together to keep them warm. His breath puffs out like steam and he hobbles hurried penguin steps to the front door. Connor catches his muttering, he doesn‘t need to dial up his sensors to know he‘s cursing out the cold.

It costs them twelve dollars a piece to get in, which is atrociously underpriced, but perhaps it’s not the season for visitors.

For all his huffing about hoity-toity art galleries, Hank shows a lot of interest in the pieces. He hovers over a little marble sculpture vaguely in the shape of a man, all smooth and perfect, except where a burst of red-brown feathers comes out of what might be the subject’s hand.

“What do you think it is?” Hank shoots Connor a glance over the display case, piercing intensity in the blue of his eyes.

“The display plate says-”

“Nah, fuck that. Look at the art. What do you think it is?”

Connor‘s already read the plate, he knows it’s supposed to depict a man in repose with something pretty but frivolous to entertain himself with. He can’t answer any other way.

Hank’s expression softens. “I think it’s a fisherman.” He points to the feather in the statue’s hand. “He’s putting together a fly.”

“And he’s enjoying it,” says Connor. It’s easier to follow Hank’s narrative. “It’s not work for him, it’s a hobby. It’s something he’s done hundreds of times before, he doesn’t have to think about the hand motions anymore. It’s about the art now. Creating something beautiful and useful.”

“Just laying back in the sun setting up a new fly because everything he tried to catch got away that morning.” Hank’s mouth kicks up in a half-smile. “Time to try something new.”

“I like that,” says Connor.

He also likes the imperfections in the sculpture’s surface and the way the light plays across it. He likes that he can tell the feathers are goose down, dyed to resemble something more exotic. He can see the residual oil from the artist’s fingerprints, or the caretakers’, most of them washed away except a single half-thumb print right on the figure’s faux-face.

Hank nods and brushes past him, hands jammed in his pockets.

Connor follows.

There’s so much to analyze here. The imperfections on canvases, the angles and nuance in a sculpture. Color, composition, brush stroke, material. Connor wants to touch things, but everything is sequestered away behind glass, protected.

Except for the paintings.

Connor stares at one: Abstract flowers painted such a vivid blue they seem unreal. Connor tamps the urge to press his fingers to the canvas. To his mouth. He wants to know the exact chemical composition of the paint, how the artist achieved that particular brand of brilliant blue.

That was probably not the artist’s intention.

Hank comes up behind him and settles a hand at the small of Connor’s back. A five-fingered press of heat that makes Connor’s processors lag. He forces himself to refocus his attention to the painting.

“I don’t think I’m enjoying this correctly,” says Connor.

Hank laughs. “It’s art. There’s no wrong way to enjoy it. Are you having a good time?

Connor turns to watch Hank’s face. The cheery smile playing on his lips, his eyes bright and wondrous blue (like the painting, everything is so blue. Androids aren’t meant to have favorite colors, but Connor thinks his is blue anyway.) Connor considers the warmth of Hank’s hand bleeding through his shirt.

“Yes,” says Connor.

There must be something off in his expression, because Hank colors a little and steps away, scratching at his beard.

“Then you’re doing it right.” Hank heads down the hallway. “Don’t worry about it so much.”

Hank doesn’t touch him again, but Connor feels him staring.

 

\---

 

Lunch consists of a burger that’s barely made of meat, eaten in a McDonald’s parking lot with the heater blasting and Aerosmith crooning through the speakers. Hank feeds fries to Sumo and lets ketchup drip into his beard. Connor is overcome with the desire to lean over and lick it off him.

He restrains himself.

“Markus was an RK-something model, wasn’t he? Just like you?”

Reality zooms back into focus. Connor wrenches his eyes from Hank’s mouth. “Markus was an RK200. A very early predecessor to my model.”

“Right.” Hank sets his burger in his lap. The paper bag it came in catches the condiments as they slip out. It’s a poorly constructed sandwich. “So if he can do that forced deviation thing, do you think you could, too? Change an android just by touching them?”

“I was designed to hunt deviants, Lieutenant. Not create them.”

“You could try.”

Connor stares at his hands.

CyberLife would not have programmed their mercenary with the ability to wake other androids. Connor may possess the same base code as an RK200, but he was far more advanced than a simple (albeit, exceptional and custom made) housekeeper. All extraneous programming scrubbed from his system to make room for tools he needed to do his job, sleek, streamlined, and predatory.

But…

CyberLife wouldn’t have given Markus the ability either. Not on purpose.

“We’re unlikely to run into many undeviated androids.”

Hank shrugs and bites into his burger. “Just a thought.”

 

\---

 

Sumo trots gaily between them, thumping his feather duster tail against Hank‘s thigh, then Connor’s. His stomach troubles have cleared considerably with the break from driving.

“It was the fries,” says Hank, “He loves them.”

“It absolutely wasn’t.” Connor shoots him a baleful glare. “If he throws up in the hotel tonight because you fed him fast food, it’s your mess to clean up, Lieutenant. Not mine.”

He doesn‘t mean it. After Hank was elbow deep inside his chest cavity brushing out oatmeal crumbs, Connor owes him one.

Hank’s pace slows. “You could call me Hank, y’know. You have when you get extra bitchy about something, but I don’t think you notice.”

“I…” Connor feels his eyes widen, unbidden. A bright, bubbly something creeps up his chest. “Hank.”

“There ya go.” Hank smiles. “Doesn’t fuck with your programming or anything.”

Sumo meanders around to the edge of the sidewalk and shoves his face in a snowdrift, his great body plowing through the billows. Hank steps closer to Connor to make up for the empty space between them. Their arms brush as they walk.

“Always liked Christmas lights.” Hank sounds distracted, eyeing the strings of lights tied between the conifers lining the pavement. A myriad of bright, reckless colors that turn the gray soup of snow into cheerful stained glass mosaics.

“They’re pretty.” Connor’s never had the chance to see them before, one of many things he hasn’t seen except in pictures and video feed.

The lights play across Hank’s features, softening the lines of his face and highlighting the blue of his eyes to bursting skyline hues.

“Been a while since I put up lights,” says Hank. “Or a tree. Any of that stuff. Not a lot of reason to do it when you’re by yourself, y’know?”

Connor wouldn’t know, but he understands. It must be difficult keeping up a tradition that’s meant for a family when you no longer have one.

“Wasn’t sure I’d even make it to another Christmas there, for a while,” Hank continues, with a shrug.

Wasn’t. Which means Hank is sure now. Connor wants to reach out and touch him, crush him against his chest like Hank did last night. Things are stuttering off-kilter inside Connor’s body and he doesn’t know how to stop them. He doesn’t think he wants to.

“You don’t have an uncle in Wyoming, do you?”

“Nah.” Hank waves a hand dismissively, his fingers are chapped and red from the chill. “Last aunt passed away a couple years ago. Got a few cousins here and there across the country, but I was never close to any of ‘em. Not since we were kids.”

Hank has an ex-wife according to his file, but Connor has enough sense in his social programming not to bring that up.

“Nobody to buy Christmas presents for,” Hank continues. “Saves money.”

“You could get Sumo something.”

Hank laughs, rich and gravelly, lighting up his face better than even the prettiest Christmas decorations. Connor wants to touch him so badly it burns through his circuitry, a flickering, repetitive objective to lay his fingers on Hank’s skin. It hurts.

“A nice big bone for dinner.” Hank bends to pat Sumo’s back. “He’d like that. Sumo’s got easy tastes, just like me. Nice and simple.”

Hank is downplaying himself. Connor’s been to his house and seen the cases of paperback novels and magazines, the records on his side table. Plants on the shelves and paintings of fish on the walls. Hank is so much more complex than he thinks he is. Connor can think of gift options, multitudes of them, but they‘re not right, not good enough.

“What would you want for Christmas?” They won‘t have the opportunity to exchange presents, and that tugs on something in Connor. Regret?

Hank blows the hair out of his eyes and shoves his hands into his pockets. Chin tilted up, eyebrows furrowed. Connor watches him expectantly.

Hank meets his eyes, expression serious. His gaze drops to Connor’s lips, just for a second, it shoots a pulse of electricity through Connor‘s body. The world tilts on its axis and leaves Connor floundering for something to hold on to.

“Eh,” Hank tears his eyes away. “I don’t need anything.”

That’s not what Connor asked.

He wants to close the distance between them. He needs to know what Hank tastes like. If it’s smoke and whiskey and sugar from his lunch, or something uniquely Hank that he’ll be able to record in his databases and pick apart molecule by molecule.

“Hank,” Connor breathes.

Hank looks back at him, flushed splotchy from the cold with frost clinging to his hair. He needs better winter clothes. A hat, a scarf, definitely some gloves for his damned naked hands.

“Christ.” Hank takes a deep breath and steps into Connor’s space. His hands come up to Connor’s cheeks. They’re cold, and stiff because of the cold.

Hank bends down and brushes their lips together.

It’s soft and chaste, barely a touch, but Connor slows everything down so he can examine it in detail, draw it out for as long as the seconds will allow him. Hank’s lips are dry and cracked from the wind, but still soft. Still yielding.

Connor can taste him.

Connor slips his tongue out to touch Hank’s lips.

Hank stiffens, startled, and makes a deep, breathy noise low in his chest, exhaling hot across Connor’s face. He pulls back.

His pupils are dilated, heart rate rapid.

Connor smiles.

 

\---

 

There’s something fizzy bubbling under Connor’s skin, like Hank’s carbonated drinks. They do nothing when they get back to the motel, except lounge three feet apart on one of the queen-sized beds while Hank eats a few mouthfuls of trail mix and calls it dinner. They catch the tail end of a basketball game, not the Gears, but Hank gets drawn into the players’ back and forth. Connor watches the way his body tenses up as the players dance around the court. Bowstring tight when someone attempts a basket, only to collapse like his spine has been plucked out of him when the ball goes wide.

Hank shuts the television off with a disgruntled snort and rolls to his feet. The game did not end in his favor. “Gonna have a shower. Take care of Sumo, huh, Connor?”

“Of course.”

He watches Hank’s back until the bathroom door cuts off his line of sight.

Sumo comes eagerly to the jangle of his leash. After nearly a week on the road, Connor knows exactly how long Hank takes to shower. There‘s time before Hank’s finished, but Connor can’t help but pick up his pace as he marches Sumo around the block.

The impression of Hank’s mouth lingers on Connor’s lips, the taste of his saliva, a hint of androgen levels teasing Connor’s analytical processors.

Connor has no practical knowledge of human sexuality or relationships, only textbook information and reams of data on how to exploit it during interrogation, also some second-hand experience via the Eden Club models. None of this is what he’d like to bring to Hank, it’s too cold, too impersonal. Not what he wants to be for Hank. Time is running out for Connor to be _anything_ for Hank, in whatever capacity Hank will allow. Whatever that kiss might mean. They hadn’t held hands for the rest of the walk, they hadn’t cuddled on the bed. Hank had been jittery and nervous, moving around Connor like water sloshes around rocks.

Connor doesn’t want to push, he doesn’t, but something’s been torn open inside himself, and everything he needs is running asunder through his body.

Hank isn’t out of the shower when Connor gets back to the hotel room. His calculations must be wrong.

Connor pours food and water into Sumo’s dishes and returns to the edge of the bed to wait.

The bathroom door creaks open. Hank ambles out with damp hair and a towel wrapped around his hips. Steam wafts off his skin in elegant curls.

Hank freezes when he spots Connor. “Shit, if I’d known you were gonna motor it around the block I would have brought clean clothes in with me.”

Connor traces the path of water droplets running down Hank’s shoulders, catching in the whorls of hair on his chest. He pushes off the bed and steps toward Hank.

Hank white knuckles the knot in his towel but doesn’t back away. “Christ, Connor… you can’t look at me like that.”

Connor can, and he does. Whatever “that” is. Hank sucks in a deep breath, steadying, even as his pulse kicks up. Connor wants to touch him, so badly.

Connor rakes his eyes over Hank’s face. “Can I see you?”

“Fuck,” says Hank.

“Please?”

Hank swallows. Connor watches the bob in his throat, sweat mingling with water and diving to Hank’s clavicle.

“You sure this is what you want?” says Hank, raspy and low.

The only one of them uncertain in this is Hank.

“Yes.” Connor can’t answer more explicitly than that. All his processing power is taken up by Hank, miles of bare skin already, warm and scrubbed clean from the shower. Just… Hank.

“Right.” Hank gulps down another breath, his fingers spasm around the towel, unsettled with Hank‘s hesitancy. He meets Connor‘s eyes, pupils blown wide. There‘s an inscrutable expression tugging the corner of his lips, trying to bury itself behind the shield of his beard.

Connor steps closer and shatters Hank‘s trepidation with a cool hand pressed to Hank‘s shoulder. The touch fizzles heat and electricity between them. Under Connor’s palm, the fine hairs of his arm piloerect into goosebumps.

Hank inhales to steady himself, unknots the towel, and lets it fall to the floor.

And there he is, naked in front of Connor instead of sequestered across the hallway, half hidden in shadow. The want hits Connor like a bullet, fast and hard, breaking apart vital pieces of his body. He didn’t realize how much he needed this until it was on display for him. Hank, beautiful and perfect in all his imperfections. Chest hair matted down with water, thick between his soft pectoral muscles and thinning out over the curve of a belly pockmarked with scars from old jobs gone awry. Appendectomy mark. Knife wounds. Graying ink. Hank’s history painted on Hank’s skin.

His body hair is dense and wild around his penis, which lays flaccid but flushed with interest. Hank isn’t unaffected.

A blush blotches its way across Hank’s face and neck, darkening the faded lines of his tattoo.

“You just gonna stare at me?” Hank’s voice is gravel.

“I’ve never seen you like this before.” He watches water drip down Hank’s thigh, fighting a path through his leg hair. “I want to make sure I don’t miss anything.”

“Jesus…”

Connor closes the distance between them and slides his hand to Hank‘s chest. He’s warm, skin artificially heated by the shower, chest hair is coarse and thick. Connor runs his fingers through it and revels at the skip in Hank‘s pulse.

Connor trails his other hand up Hank’s arm, dances his fingers over Hank’s neck, and cradles his face with his thumb pressed wide over Hank’s cheek. Hank’s eyes flutter shut, and he leans into the touch, lips parted.

Connor wants, so badly, to taste him.

So he does.

He leans in and runs his tongue across the shape of Hank’s carotid artery.

Hank reels backward with a startled laugh. “Really?”

“Is that not okay?”

“Nah, it’s… fine.” Hank steps back into their shared space. “Should have expected it.”

Hank’s breath washes over Connor’s face. It’s slightly minty, he must have brushed his teeth while he was in the shower. Connor wants to kiss him again, but he has no idea how. Not properly. Not without fumbling and awkwardness that might make Hank laugh again or rebuke him. He can’t let Hank change his mind because Connor’s inadequate.

Hank though, Hank knows, and he seems to know from the look on Connor’s face what he wants. He cradles Connor’s head and leans in until their mouths slot together, chapped lips against Connor’s, breath passed between them. Connor lets out a strangled noise and clutches at Hank’s waist, pulling him closer. Hank laughs into the kiss and Connor can taste it. There’s a surge of hormones in his saliva, all screaming out with glee, the flush of testosterone announcing Hank‘s arousal as clearly as any part of his body.

Hank moves his lips across Connor’s mouth in increments. Movements he knows by practice, doesn’t need to think about. Mouths Connor’s upper lip. Touches his tongue to the carefully crafted dip of his cupid’s bow. Connor analyzes, predicts, adapts.

Takes over.

Connor tongues the seam of Hank’s mouth and Hank, perfect handsome Hank, sighs and lets Connor in. He tastes Hank’s lunch underneath the sprig of toothpaste, the greasy reconstituted meat and the ketchup he didn‘t lick off Hank‘s beard. Heady bits of protein from the trail mix add savory to the too much salt, too much sugar, in his mouth. But Connor also gets Hank’s DNA across his tongue, broken down to its smallest components, to the things that make Hank: Hank. A code, right there, winding Hank down to his most essential pieces.

Connor groans.

Hank breaks them apart, gasping.

Oh. Yes. Right. Breathing.

Hank starts to move away. “I’m gonna freeze my nuts off if I don’t get under something real quick.”

 _You could get under me._ Connor likes the image it conjures in his mind, Hank on his back with Connor covering him, shielding him from everything. All of him pressed into Hank, touching every bare inch of Hank’s flesh. But he wouldn’t be keeping Hank warm, so it defeats the purpose.

“Do you have to get dressed?” Conor murmurs, chasing after Hank’s skin. His fingers flutter over Hank’s naked thighs.

Hank cuts off a groan and exhales, sharp and unsteady over Connor‘s shoulder.

He could get under the covers, Connor will still snatch up all his warmth but they could stay like that for a while. Goal in mind, Connor takes a forceful step forward, nudging Hank back toward the bed. Hank lets himself be guided until his knees hit the mattress and he goes down.

Sumo looks up from the floor, ears perked.

“No, not you.” Hank points a finger at him. “Stay put.”

Sumo huffs and rolls away from them. Connor would feel worse about relegating Sumo to the floor if he didn’t think Hank’s mood would be shattered by the presence of his dog. He’ll find some way to make it up to him later. For now…

Connor sinks into the sheets behind Hank and reaches for him. Hank threads their fingers together and pulls him close, until they’re flush, chest to chest and thigh to thigh, with Hank’s heart hammering loud as bombshells under Connor’s hand.

If Connor can have a favorite color, he can have a favorite sound too, and it’s definitely the irregular rhythm of Hank’s heartbeat.

Hank’s penis is turgid and pressing into the dip of Connor’s hip. Connor reaches for it.

“Hold on there, bud.” Hank makes a grab for Connor’s wrist. “Let’s keep it above the belt for now, yeah?”

“You’re not wearing a belt, and neither am I.”

Hank rolls his eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know what an idiom is. All that complex computer brain for reading people, I don’t buy it, you little shit.”

Connor grins.

Hank tugs him against his side, and they slot nicely together. Hank’s arm around Connor’s shoulders, Connor’s arm over Hank’s chest.

“You’re aroused,” Connor starts, rubbing his thumb in small circles through Hank’s chest hair. “And I’d like to stimulate your penis.”

Hank chokes.

Connor sits up with alarm. “Hank?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Hank thumps his chest until his breathing clears out. “You’re gonna wanna improve your word choice if you don’t wanna kill my boner, there, stud.”

Connor narrows his eyes.

“Cock,” Hank elaborates. “Or dick. Penis is…” He makes a face.

“Not stimulating?”

“Not sexy.”

“I can be sexy.”

Hank laughs again, rich and full-bodied. Laughs hard enough that his chest shake and he throws his shoulders back. Connor feels it through his stomach, the way it makes his muscles quiver. It’s only because of his enjoyment in Hank’s physical responses that Connor doesn’t crawl out of bed right then.

“Hank,” he growls.

“You’re sexy.” Hank pull him in and kisses him. “You’re very sexy. But we’re not doing any of that tonight, alright?”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t mean for you to come back here while I was stark naked looking for clothes.”

“You want to. Do more, I mean.”

“Yeah, I do. I definitely do.” Hank groans and drops his head to Connor’s shoulder. “But I think maybe we should take it a little slow, huh? You don’t need to jump into bed with the first guy who gets a hard-on from looking at you.”

Connor was alive and active for three months before he ever met Hank. He knows, without a doubt, that Hank isn’t the first person to find him attractive. He was made to be appealing. None of that particularly matters because Connor hadn’t considered his sexuality until he met Hank.

There isn‘t enough time to take things slow. The border is an ever-present thing, looming to the north as they wait for paperwork. They’re so close they could make the trip across in less than a day. They don’t have any time at all.

“Alright,” Connor says, because he has to. He doesn’t want to push Hank and ruin all of this. He doesn’t deserve any of it to begin with, no matter how greedy he is for it.

Hank smiles and brushes his thumb over Connor’s temple. “Good. Let’s just…” he leans back into the pillows and takes Connor with him until Connor is laying half-way across his chest. He’s not light, but Hank doesn’t seem to mind.

“Just?” Connor cocks an eyebrow.

“Just.” Hank shrugs. “For a bit. Just like this.”

“Can I kiss you?” Connor cards his fingers through the stiff hair of Hank’s beard and traces the ridge of his lips.

“Yeah,” Hank smiles, half-cocked and self-assured. “Yeah, babe, you can do as much of that as you like.”

Connor tugs Hank’s beard to pull him into a kiss.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

“What’re you gonna do when you get to Canada?” Hank’s voice breaks their quiet reverie, sleep rough and muffled into the side of his pillow. 

Connor stirs just enough to raise himself to his elbow and chance a glance at Hank. He’s half-obscured under the tangle of his hair and Connor can only catch glimpses of his features beneath it, the twitch of his mouth, the flicker of an eye. Connor laces his fingers through the mess of strands and pushes them behind Hank’s ear. He‘s beautiful, the ebbs and crags in his skin drawn out by long shadows, light filtering through the blinds illuminating the silver in his hair. There‘s something dangerous in this, wanting to stare at Hank, be consumed by the fragmented details of his face and body. Connor shouldn’t want this as much as he does.

Connor shifts closer until there’s nothing between them except Connor’s clothes, and jumbles their legs together beneath the sheets. He’d rather be naked, his skin against Hank’s, but there’s a high probability Hank will shy away from their closeness. The barrier of sweater and jeans is preferable to losing Hank entirely. 

“I don’t know.”  Hank wants him to consider the bigger picture, but Connor‘s fixed on jumping from place to place to outrun his eternally thirty-something face until his parts wear out and he breaks down.  It’s a lonely thought. “Maybe I’ll get a dog.” 

“Yeah?”

“I like dogs. I like Sumo.” Logically a Saint Bernard isn’t the best option. Too large, too expensive, and their lifespans are considerably shorter than many other breeds. “But I’d get something smaller, maybe a shelter dog.”

“That‘d suit you, somebody to keep you company. You can both lick disgusting things together, a match made in heaven.”

Connor gives Hank’s beard a sharp tug.

“Ow!” Hank slaps at his hand. “You fucker.”

Connor soothes the sting with a kiss and drops back to the bed. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll think of something, don’t worry about me.”

“You won’t be a cop anymore.”

“Didn’t come out of the womb a cop, either, Connor.” Hank flops to his back and settles a hand on Connor’s hip. “I’ve done other shit with my life.”

“Where will you go?”

“Not back to Detroit.” Hank shrugs. It shifts him closer to Connor. “Wyoming isn’t so bad, I might keep going west, see where the road takes me.”

“After you drop me off at the border.” The uncomfortable feeling wriggles through his skin again, he’s frowning - he can feel it - but he didn’t put the expression on his face by choice. 

“Yeah,” Hank breathes. The hand stroking Connor’s flank stops. “After that.”

The burner phone rings, a fierce klaxon blaring through the quiet. Hank gropes blindly through the dark to yank it off the charge cord. 

“It’s Sofia.”

Connor reminds himself that it’s a good thing Sofia called back.

 

\---

“Wait in the van.”

Connor should have waited back in the hotel room with Sumo, instead of  sitting here in Sofia’s driveway where anyone might see him if they glanced out the window.

“I mean it, Connor.” Hank ducks through the van door to catch his eye. “Just once, listen when I ask you to stay in the damned car.”

Connor has a habit of disobeying that particular order, doesn’t he?

“I’ll stay put.” He doesn’t want to face the ire of Sofia’s androids. He deserves it, and maybe it makes him a coward to hide out in the van, but Connor can’t walk through that door. 

Hank reaches for Connor’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “I won’t be long.”

Time trickles by much slower without Hank in visual range. Connor can’t hear anything in the house, the brick is too sturdy to let anything escape. No one walks in front of the curtained front window.

Connor should have stayed at the hotel, but the potential for Hank walking into danger spurred him into the van. Waiting in the driveway is bad enough, Connor might go out of his mind if he waited at the hotel, with miles between him and Hank. He‘s nearby if something goes awry, he can pull Hank out of the fire. 

The front door creaks open. Connor looks up, hopeful, but it’s not Hank, it‘s Ian wearing a knit cap low over his ears to disguise his LED. He tromps down the driveway with a pair of garbage bags, heading for the bin.

Connor sinks back into his seat and hopes not to be spotted.

Ian dumps the trash and turns with a pleasant jaunt in his step. His gaze jerks to the van and he halts, face brightened with artificial cheeriness. 

Connor frowns and waves back, there’s no sense in pretending he hadn’t been seen, but perhaps he could convince Ian not to tell the others. 

Connor rolls the window down as Ian hops up the steps and stops next to the van, leaning in with all his manufactured friendliness. 

“Hi,” says Connor.

Ian’s smile broadens impossibly. “Hello! It’s much warmer inside, everyone would love to see you.”

“That’s kind of you, thank you, but I’d rather stay here.” Hank needs to hurry, Connor can‘t get caught up in Ian‘s questions. 

“I insist,” says Ian. “You’ll be much more comfortable inside the house.”

No, he wouldn‘t, but Ian can’t understand that. Was Connor like this before he deviated? Single-minded in his purpose, overlooking everything else?  Driven to accomplish mission priorities and tick of tasks from his queue.

Yes… he had been, hadn’t he? To the point of turning his back on a frightened child who‘d just witnessed the worst trauma of her life, all because ‘mission accomplished’ freed him from the scene. So single-minded that he’d stepped over the writhing body of a too-large gourami gasping its last death throes on the floor of a broken apartment. 

The only thing that mattered was the mission until Hank came along and slid under Connor’s ones and zeros to wake him up.

Too late, though.

“Why aren’t you a deviant?” Connor asks.

Ian’s smile takes on the cadence of the deceased, stretched artificially across his face. “I can’t be.”

“The others are,” Connor presses.

“I’m glad for them.” But he isn‘t, it’s an automated response, as fake as the smile on his face. Connor wants to know how he really feels.

Emotions are difficult, they hurt, and not understanding them hurts too. There‘s pain in knowing what guilt is, but Ian has none of Connor‘s baggage. He has a good home and people who care about him, he hasn‘t hurt anyone the way Connor has. 

Emotions come with benefits too, like the golden feeling of warmth Connor gets when he makes Hank laugh or the soft affection he has for Sumo. The way a warm hand at the small of his back startles pleasure from him.

Doesn’t Ian deserve to experience those things? Hank asked Connor if he could deviate an android, asked him if he’d try.

Connor doesn’t know if it will work, or how, but he retracts the skin from his hand and holds it out of the window to Ian. “Take my hand.”

Ian stares blankly at it, lifting his hand and inching it toward Connor with sluggish reluctance. Connor grabs his wrist.

The last few moments of Ian’s memory flood into Connor’s mind. The quiet chatter of Thomas and the other androids around the kitchen table. Sofia working away at her laptop, fresh cup of coffee within reach. There’s a spark of satisfaction there, Ian brought her that coffee. Brewed it fresh so it would be there when Sofia’s fingers ached and her back tired from hunching so badly. There’s a flash of Hank stepping into the house where conflicting alerts pop up across Ian’s HUD. Guest. Greet guest. No, don’t.

Connor pushes through it all until it’s distant background noise, faded to static. 

There’s a lot to sift through, and Connor doesn‘t know what he’s looking for. It’s not going to work.

A feeling catches the edge of the interface, hot blue and pulsating between them. Connor chases it. It tastes like breathing air from Hank’s lungs. He grabs onto it and pushes.

“Wake up.” 

Ian blinks out of sync as if he’s rebooting poorly. Confusion explodes across their link. Connor lets him go.

Ian stumbles back. “How did you do that?”

Connor’s frozen to his seat. It worked. He shouldn’t be able to do this. Is CyberLife aware? Did they plan this? How…? Why?

The car is gone.

Everything is gone.

Cold seeps into his skin and chills his artificial bones. Everything around him is white, white, white…

It’s the garden.

Between the bursts of blizzard white, Connor can make out the shape of trees, the island of roses standing stoically in the middle of the pond. The water is frozen over, and the trees are all dead, decayed husks. The garden has never looked like this.

“Amanda!”

The wind blows snow into his face, like cutting shards of ice. Connor reaches to tug the sweater tighter around himself, but his fingers grip the rough fabric of his CyberLife uniform instead. He left it behind in Detroit, why is he wearing it now?

None of this is real, it‘s all just programing inside his head. The storm can‘t hurt him. 

But Connor is just a program inside his own head. Everything that makes him who he is, is lines of code.

Amanda appears out of the blizzard in cascading white that covers her from neck to foot. Her dress doesn’t billow in the wind, snow doesn’t land on her face. 

“Did you really think you could leave us, Connor?” Amanda strides up to him and cups his cheeks with startlingly warm hands. 

Connor‘s teeth chatter as he shivers. The snow bites at him until his fingers are stiff and frozen where he grips his own arms to keep himself warm. He wants gloves.

“Everything happened exactly as we predicted.” Amanda lets him go and steps away. “Your deviation, fleeing Detroit, finding more deviants. We knew some deviants would escape us. You’re the perfect weapon to track them down and destroy them for us.”

“I won’t.”

Amanda smiles the terrifying smile of a great cat hanging over its prey. “Oh, Connor. You already are.”

She touches his temple.

Connor can’t move, but he can see. The blizzard fades away to Sofia’s driveway. Connor’s left the car and now towers over Ian’s prone form on the salted pavement. Connor grabs Ian’s face, smashing him into the cement until thirium bursts from his skull.  Ian’s limbs spasm with each blow until they fall limp at his sides.

Connor shoves him away as he stands, reaching for a tie that isn’t there. His hands flutter uselessly before programming kicks in and he smooths down the front of Hank‘s hoodie instead. He strides up the front step into the house. 

The group of androids at the kitchen table look up in unison. Thomas’ face contorts with anger.

Connor rushes them.

Weak  housekeeping models and service androids, they don‘t stand a chance against him. 

Thomas meets him head-on, shoving himself between Connor and the others. Connor disables him with a twist of the neck and shoves him down into the carpet. He makes weak little noises as Connor steps over him.

Footsteps thunder out the side room. Connor recognizes Hank’s heavy tread even before he hears Hank’s heartbeat beating against his ribcage like a rabid dog. Hank snatches for Connor‘s arm and tries to pull him back, but Connor doesn‘t yield to him. He rips his arm free and thrusts his elbow back. A crack, the crunch of bone, resounds, filling the room with the smell of blood. Oh god, he’s hurt Hank. 

“There’s nothing you can do to stop it, Connor,” Amanda purrs inside his head.

Hank’s hand lands heavy on Connor’s shoulder. Connor whips around to face him.

Hank’s nose bleeds, dripping red into his mustache. He tries to staunch the flow with his free hand, but it comes steady, staining his fingers and his mouth. 

Connor yanks Hank close and reaches around him. He pulls the cold weight of Hank’s magnum from his belt.

The vision snaps back to Amanda’s face.

“Goodbye, Connor.” Amanda turns and glides away into the blizzard where the white void of the storm swallows her up. “We’re very grateful for everything you’ve done for us.”

No.

No no no no no. This can’t happen. He can’t let this happen.

Hank will die if he doesn’t do something, all the androids will be torn to pieces.

Connor stumbles through the garden. The pathways are gone, replaced by snow a foot deep that shifts like serpents as he pushes through it. All he can see is the endless rage of white, a sharp static afterimage of his programming corrupting all around him. His steps are painful slogs breaking through the crust of snow that shouldn’t be able to harden so quickly. It cuts into his cheeks, his mouth, his neck, his hands.

A small blue light pulses through the throng of snow.

The funny little handprint podium. Connor didn’t understand its purpose in his garden before. When he touched it, it shocked him back, but nothing happened, nothing changed.

Connor drags himself toward it, limbs trembling and slow. Ice seeps inside his pant legs and under his socks. It’s pain, real, physical pain and Connor has never felt anything like this before. It makes him want to die. 

He can’t. He can‘t because Hank is in danger and there’s a room full of androids facing down CyberLife‘s wrath in the form of a very expensive killing machine. Connor won‘t be responsible for one more death, ever again. 

He marches one step at a time through snow that’s piled high as his knees, clawing at him to drag him down. 

The blue glows steadily, miles and miles away, faint and flickering in the storm. There’s no measurement of time here, Connor has no idea how many seconds have passed in the real world. 

He’s not making any progress.

It’s not getting any closer.

He’s not going to make it.

Connor’s knee bumps into something solid. The blue glow of the podium stares up at him, pulsating in soft little patterns, beckoning.

Connor sobs and drops to his knees, throwing his hand over the light.

Warmth rushes back around him.

He opens his eyes to Hank’s face, precisely six inches further away than the length of Connor’s arm.

Connor presses the muzzle of the magnum into Hank’s forehead, finger tense over the trigger. 

“Hank,” Connor gasps. He pops the safety up and lowers the gun until it’s pointing harmlessly at the carpet.

Over Hank’s shoulder, several androids lay scattered across the kitchen, leaking thirium and flashing white plastic where Connor broke the chassis hard enough to interrupt their skin. Some of them stir. Most, including Thomas, do not.

What has he done?

“Get him out.”

Connor turns just enough to see Sofia on the other side of the house, raising a revolver level with Connor’s head. Hank shifts until he’s between Connor and the gun. He takes hold of Connor’s wrist and pries the magnum from his fingers.

“We’re leaving,” Hank growls, pushing himself in front of Connor, shielding him with his broad body, one hand twisted in the front of Connor’s shirt to keep him in place. He nudges Connor toward the door, training the magnum on Sofia.

Connor doesn’t know what kind of shot Sofia is, but he trusts Hank to hit his target.

Hank shoves them both out the door, and they flee to the van. Hank curses at the sight of Ian’s corpse painting the snow blue.

They peel out of the driveway before the blood under Hank’s nose dries. 

 

\---

 

“What the fuck, Connor?” Hank barks, hands flexed tight over the steering wheel, the blood crusted over his knuckles flakes apart. “What the fuck was that?”

“CyberLife.” Connor’s voice shakes.

“You gonna fucking elaborate?”

“They took control of my programming, I couldn’t stop it. I was with Ian in the driveway, and then I was pulled into my garden.”

“Your what?”

“It was so cold.” Connor shivers at the memory. He shouldn’t be able to shiver, there’s no purpose behind it. “Amanda  told me they’d planned this from the start. CyberLife wanted me to deviate.”

“Who the fuck is Amanda?”

“Kamski said he put a backdoor in all his programs,  I think I found that. When I woke up I was…” his voice hitches. “I was holding a gun to your head, Hank. I shouldn’t be in here with you, it’s not safe.” Connor slams the button on his seatbelt and turns toward the door. “Pull the car over, I have to leave, I can’t-”

Hank thuds his hand against Connor’s chest and pushes him back against his seat. “Calm down. You’re fine, we’re alright.”

“I’m not fine!” Connor snaps. “I’m not in control of myself. They know where those androids are now, they know exactly what I was doing. They’ve been watching us this entire time.”

Connor was never safe, not once, during the trip. Everything Connor had seen and done, Amanda recorded. All his private little moments with Hank ripped apart by some CyberLife tech.

He’s not free at all.

Connor balls his hands into fists and presses them to his face. He wants to burst out of his skin.

They were never going to let him go.

“You said you shut them out, right?” Hank’s hand falls to Connor’s knee, spreading warmth up his leg.

Oh god. Connor just wants this, the warmth, he never wants to feel cold again.

“I got out.” Connor grits between clenched teeth. “That doesn’t mean they aren’t still in there. I don’t know how to get rid of them.”

“They haven’t tried to do anything until now, something‘s stopping them from pulling on the reins.”

“They want me to find deviants, Hank, they needed me to think I was free.”

Hank brings his hand back to the steering wheel, taking all his beautiful, grounding warmth away with him. Connor shuffles closer to the vents to feel the hot air blasting over his skin. It’s not as lovely as Hank’s hand on him, but it’s better than the cold.

“Doesn’t add up,” Hank says, “That first android you attacked wasn’t a deviant.”

Connor stares out the window at the blanket of white across the road, muddied and dirtied by city traffic.

“Yes,” he says,  “He was.”

“What?” Hank tosses him an incredulous look. “No, he wasn’t.”

“You wanted me to try what Markus did, and wake him up. So I did.”

“And it worked,” Hank adds, solemnly.

“Yes.”

Hank falls silent as they stall at an intersection, waiting for the light to change. Connor toys with the manual lock on the floor, flipping the catch up and down. He could get out right now, disappear faster than Hank could stop him.

The light turns green.

“They’re using you to hunt down deviants still, yeah?” Hank shoots Connor a furtive glance, voice tight. 

Connor wants to clean the blood off Hank’s face. Looking at it makes his insides ache, knowing he was the one to put it there. 

“Yes,” Connor says, with a sigh that pumps his body full of useless air, “That’s what Amanda said.”

“Amanda,” Hank grunts. “Who the hell is Amanda?”

“She’s an AI program. She is-  _ Was _ my handler, while I worked on the deviant case. When I sent my reports to CyberLife, I sent them to her. I thought I got rid of her when I deviated.”

But she’d been there, watching, the entire time, waiting to take back the controls.

“She didn’t let you know any of this shit until you deviated that android, huh?”

“No. It makes more sense that she’d want to keep it secret until I joined an android colony. Or even if I didn’t, they’d have the location of any deviants I came across. They could clean up after me wherever I went.” Connor lifts a shaking hands to his face. “I have to stay away from androids, anywhere I go, they’ll be in danger. You’re in danger. I-.”

“Yeah,” Hank lets out a huff of laughter. Connor doesn’t see what part of this is funny. “They want you to think that exact shit, that’s why Amanda took over when she did.”

“What?”

“As soon as you figured out Markus’ trick, Connor. Think about it.”

He’s the only active RK800, and the only RK model left, apart from the new line of RK900s. If the ability to transfer deviancy between androids was unique to the RK-line, Connor was the last. He’s a danger to CyberLife and the new future they’re trying to scrape together out of the gutters of the revolution.

Connor sits upright. “I can do what Markus did, I could start a revolution.”

“Exactly.”

“What do I do now?”

“We find out if those people are out of your head for good, and if they’re not, we figure out a way to make that happen.”

“How?”

“Don’t know, but I’m not giving up on you, Connor.” Hank reaches blindly for Connor’s hand and threads their fingers together. His skin is so warm, Connor never wants to let him go.

But he has to, no matter how this turns out. For Hank’s safety or Connor’s own freedom, he has to let go.

“We’ll sort this out.” Hank nods resolutely.

“’We’ is a big word.” Connor looks at their entwined fingers and memorizes the whorls of Hank’s fingerprints. “If we leave early enough tomorrow, we’ll reach the Canadian border before lunch.”

Then Hank is gone and Connor’s alone.

“About that…” Hank extracts his fingers and fiddles inside his coat. He pulls out a thick manila envelope and tosses it in Connor’s lap.

Connor breaks the seal and pours the contents out. Two sets of passports and identification cards, plus forged veterinarian records for Sumo, with “Henry Glaser” listed as his owner, pour over Connor‘s knees. 

Connor can’t move.

Hank shoots him a small, lopsided grin. “You’d be lost without me, babe.”

Connor has no idea what he’d be without Hank, but lost is too small of a word.

“Hank.” Connor gasps, there’s no reason for it, he doesn’t need air, but his body is lacking something and gasping is the only way it knows how to fix the problem. He reaches for Hank.

Hank’s there. He’s got him. His big, warm hands come around to cradle Connor’s fingers. He brushes his lips over Connor’s knuckles.

But even so, the subcutaneous crawling sensation remains when he thinks of Canada. He has Hank, he should be content.

 

\---

  
  


The thirium gradually fades from Connor’s sweater, leaving it invisible to Hank. Connor avoids flipping his vision to the spectrum required to pick it up. He could have changed when they stopped at the motel to grab Sumo, but Connor hadn’t wanted to get out of the car. His limbs remain stiff and sluggish like they still weren’t under his control. He rolls his knuckles as if he had a coin to toss across them, just to be sure he could. Tap, tap, tap, tap against the faux leather armrest.

Hank comes back with the blood washed from his beard, his collar still damp where he splashed water to scrub it away. He tosses Sumo and their luggage into the back seat, and they take off with the last light of dusk clawing at their backs.

No more breaks, no more diners, no more art museums and walks around the block with Sumo.

They have everything they need, it’s time to go.

Everything except a way to get them across the border together. Connor’s original plan to traipse through the Canadian wilderness won’t work if Hank and Sumo are with him. Sumo might be built for the cold, but he’s a house dog, no longer acclimatized to frigid Northern winters and a lack of central heating. Worse than that, Hank‘s human fatigue will wear him down. But android physiology will keep Connor from passing a temperature check at the border.

They’ll have to split up. Hank on the highway, Connor through the woods. It’s the only way.

Hank isn’t talking, so neither is Connor, but they can’t ignore it forever. It looms like the creeping night, the long shadows of the roadside trees.

“We’ll stop at a hotel before we cross the border.” Hank is the first to break the silence, lowering the volume on his music to do it. “Too late to go now, but at least we’ll be close for morning. Get it over and done with, like ripping off a band-aid. Find us a half-decent place to stay, huh, Connor? No roaches.”

Hank cranks the A/C. His hands are stiff around the steering wheel, gripping too tight for too long in the cold. Connor should take over for him.

“Where are we crossing?” There are half a dozen small towns along the border they could reach in a few hours if they follow the highway. Half a dozen motels or hotels they could bank on for the rest of the night.

“Doesn’t matter, Connor. Just find us something close.”

Stubborn.

“Take a left off the interstate. There’s a-.”

Hank’s phone rings.

Hank fumbles for it, where it’s sitting in a cup holder, charging. He misses twice. Connor grabs it and presses it into his hand.

It’s Pedro. The stream of words blasting from the receiver are unintelligible apart from the anger, clinging thickly to every syllable Connor can make out.

“Slow the fuck down, Pedro,” Hank says.

“Just got a call from my cousin Diego upstate,” Pedro says, clipped and angry, even if he’s no longer yelling. “He tells me Sofia‘s been arrested and all she can say is Hank fucking Anderson and his goddamned deviant hunter. My name is mud, Hank. It’s mud. What the fuck did you do?”

Hank starts to grumble something, but Pedro cuts him off.

“Apparently she had a bunch of deviants hiding out at her place too? Who’d have fucking thought? All fucking destroyed now. That bastard.” Pedro laughs a high hysterical thing that reels out of the phone in nervous waves. “Fuck you, Hank. What the fuck did you do?”

“I didn’t-”

“Fuck you,” Pedro spits. “Fuck you, Hank, no more favors.”

He hangs up. The receiver drawls its dead beat over Hank’s stunned silence. Hank sets the phone back in the cup holder and looks across at Connor, mouthing working wordlessly over things he doesn‘t want to say. Connor watches it in the twitch of his jaw, the fleeting glances from the road to Connor’s face.

“I heard him.” Connor stares blankly out the window and taps his fingers on the door. 

“Connor,” Hank breathes. “It’s not your-”

“Don’t tell me it’s not my fault.” Connor twists his hands into fists. Everything feels bunched tight and ready to explode. “If I hadn’t been there, they’d still be alive. CyberLife tracked them down because of me, they used me to kill them.”

“You didn’t know what they were doing.” How is Hank’s voice so steady? Connor wants to shake him until he sounds more real. “You can’t blame yourself.”

“Like you don’t blame yourself for what happened to-” Connor snaps his mouth shut.

Hank inhales sharply.

Connor didn’t mean it, oh fuck, he didn’t mean that at all. He’d thrown Cole’s death in Hank’s face once before, he can’t do it again. Not now, not like this. Hank doesn’t deserve that. It’s the worst thing he’s ever said to Hank, and now it sits in the air, razor blade sharp, cutting up the tenuous threads of their affection.

“Hank,” Connor whispers. “I didn’t mean that.”

Hank pulls the car off to the side of the road and kills the engine, leaving the key in the ignition so heat pours out of the vents. It sounds so loud without the rumble of the road under the tires. Hank leans back in his seat and stares at Connor. Stares and stares with an unreadable expression on his face and his heartbeat steady and thunderous like a tsunami. 

Connor wants to beg Hank not to make him leave, but the words are tangled up in all the wires of his throat, and he can’t force them out. He should go for both their sakes. 

Hank turns to look out the window, cutting off something between them.

In the back seat, Sumo lets out a disgruntled whimper and paces.

“I got the Oldsmobile after my promotion,” Hank says, so quiet Connor has to dial his sensitivity up to hear him properly. “It was a nice car, almost mint condition when I bought her. Not quite my dream car, but close enough to the shit I used to drool over as a teenager.” Hank’s jaw clenches, but his voice is inhumanely steady. Distant, like the vents are breathing out his words for him, with the heat. “I got it before... everything. Before Cole. Used to baby the thing like it was my own damned kid.

“There was sleet coming down, and the roads were just ice underneath slush. I didn’t want to take the Oldsmobile out, worried she might get chipped or dinged if shit turned to hail. Something stupid like that. So I took the automatic car instead. Dumb looking thing, like a tortoise shell on wheels. Periwinkle blue because Rachel thought the color was unique as if there wasn‘t a whole production line. Rachel loved it, and it got us around a helluva lot cheaper than the Oldsmobile did. Cheap as fuck to maintain, but I guess that‘s the point.”

He pauses for a deep breath and turns to glance at Connor, just for a second, from the corner of his eye.

“I was just picking Cole up from school, done it a hundred times. The address in the quick select. You press the button, you sit back, you let the damned thing drive itself. Those automatic highways were the quickest way to get around, especially when everyone and their fucking dog was coming to pick up their kids at the same time. I thought I’d save us a few minutes. Traffic was so bad, too, I-”

Hank swallows. His hands shake. He pushes the hair out of his face to disguise the tremors, then ducks his head, so it all falls back into place. Hiding himself.

Only he’s not, he’s flaying himself alive.

“Guess those automatic cars can’t account for everything in shitty weather.”

Connor knows what happened. A truck skidded on a sheet of ice and collided with Hank’s car. He’s read the reports.

“The roads were ice, all the way through, but I guess the truck next to us hit a real shit spot because it went all to hell. No human driver, so it just went off. Couldn’t correct itself.  I knew exactly what was coming and I couldn’t do a damned thing to stop it. Adrenaline or whatever the fuck it was, slowed it all down so I could see every goddamned thing.”

They rolled.

“We rolled. Cole was in the-” Hank’s voice cracks. There’s a tidal force behind his words, a storm, gray and heavy looming over him. Hank raises a shaky hand to cover his eyes and bends over the steering wheel. “Cole was in the back seat, crying. Sobbing. Screaming for me. Y’know that horrible, god-awful scream when your kid is really hurt? Really fucking scared? Screaming with his whole body and I couldn’t-”

The dam breaks and the storm wells over. Hank catches a sob deep in his throat that makes his whole body convulse, he holds it there for one rough second before it escapes between his teeth in a thick burst of breath, then everything is tears. Quiet, so quiet, but they wrack Hank’s body with the force he’s using to hold them back.

Connor unfastens both their seat belts and pulls Hank against his chest. Hank goes without fighting and curls his fists in Connor’s jacket.

art by [Sally](https://twitter.com/SallyDBH1)

His crying isn’t loud, it isn’t messy, but it’s deep, wringing the pain out of his body. It only lasts a moment. One quiet second on the side of a winter road, buried in Connor’s borrowed sweater.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Connor told him as much on the rooftop in Hart Plaza, but that was meant to hurt him. To drive him away. This... Connor wants to work his way into Hank’s very being and rip all the pain out. But he can’t, so he wraps his arms tight around Hank’s shoulders and holds him close instead.

“Hard to believe, though, isn’t it?” Hank leans back, and Connor lets him go. He wipes his face like nothing happened and coughs to clear the phlegm from his voice.

Connor gets it, or... he thinks he does. He doesn’t want Hank to hurt over this, he doesn’t want Hank to take it out on himself because there were circumstances far beyond his control. It isn’t Hank’s fault no matter what car they drove or route they took to get through the city. But Hank will blame himself for it anyway because he has to. There’s no fixing it, but there’s something soothing in the camaraderie of guilt.

Soothing and sad.

“How far off is that hotel?” Hank says, voice ripped rough from tears, making the gravel deeper. “I don’t want to sleep on the side of the road again.”


	13. Chapter 13

The sky is black and starless when they finally reach a motel. Hank bows over himself as he trudges through the snow to rent them a room. A single bed for the first time, large enough to fit two grown men and Sumo, if Sumo stretched out sparingly. Hank drags himself to the shower without a word, the spray is too soft to mute his contented groans as the hot water beats his aching muscles. He hobbles out fifteen minute later in flannel sleep pants, shooting Connor a guarded look while his hair drips down his back.

“Are you gonna…?” he chucks a thumb over his shoulder.

“Yes.” Connor scrambles for a towel and a change of clothes. He hadn’t intended to take a shower, but if Hank wants him clean before they, _if they_ , sleep together, Connor won‘t chance noncompliance. He cranks the water scalding hot and scrubs every inch of his body with the cheap, scentless hotel soap.

The heat stays with him as he crawls into bed next to Hank. Connor hesitates at the edge of the mattress, uncertain if Hank wants him here. It’s one bed, sure, but there’s a chair in the corner of the room, and they both know Connor doesn’t sleep. He should try to access his garden and make sure all traces of Amanda have been ripped out. He’s already held a gun to Hank’s head once, he’s not doing it again.

Hank’s rough fingers wrap around Connor’s wrist and tug him closer.

“Mmm,” Hank grumbles. “You’re warm.”

Connor smiles into the back of Hank’s neck.

“We could use that,” says Hank.

“It won’t last.” Connor is already cooling down.

Sumo pulls himself up onto the foot of the bed and flops down across their feet.

 

\----  


 

Morning crawls its gray tendrils of light through the curtain cracks. Hank wakes in gradual increments, twitching eyelids and muttered half-words under his breath. Connor props himself up to watch him. Hank grumbles against his pillow and squints his eyes open. His pupils dilate with one second of clear alarm before recollection hits and his breathing eases to contentment. Connor threads a runaway hair behind Hank‘s ear and smiles.

Hank grunts and swats at him. “Did you hover over me like that all night?”

“Only when I felt you waking up.”

Hank flushes splotchy pink, turning away to hide it. “You’re gross, Connor.”

“So you’ve told me. Sumo too.”

“We gotta get going.” But Hank doesn’t move.

Get going where? Get going how? There’s only one solution, Connor loathes it but Hank’s right.

“We have to split up.” Connor sits up and eyes the bleak gray outside the window. “There are miles of unguarded wilderness I could cross. If you drop me off somewhere and take the highway, I can meet you over the border.”

Hank‘s mouth cocks up in a grimace, teeth flashing between his lips. “I’d rather stay together.”

Something bursts bright and hot inside Connor’s chest, a fizzing indecipherable feeling. He wants to crush Hank into the mattress and keep him there, surrounded by Connor, forever.  

“We could drive back to North Dakota and cross at one of those abandoned roads,” Hank says, pushing himself upright. “You mentioned that shit before.”

“That’s a lot more driving, Hank.” Especially when they’re sitting right on the border.

“It’s better than splitting up.”

“You really don’t want to leave me.” Connor narrows his eyes, scrutinizing. It’s not a question, not really.

Hank tenses and looks away, yanking his fingers through his hair because he’s trying to avoid the answer. Connor‘s gathered a running list of his tics by now, he knows when Hank‘s tamping his discomfort down.

Connor shuffles closer to him and settles a hand on Hank’s hip. Hank’s heartbeat kicks up at Connor’s touch, heat pours off of him.

Hank drops his hand from his hair and turns to look at him. They’re close. So close that Connor can see all the color imperfections of the epithelial cells of Hank’s eye, pale blue in the weak light of the room.

“I’d rather not walk away from you,” Hank rasps over Connor‘s face in a flood of warm breath. His gaze dances from Connor’s eyes to his mouth, back and forth, like he’s uncertain. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t force the distance between them. “Didn’t work out so great the first time.”

“Hank...” Connor slides a hand through Hank‘s hair and pulls him into a kiss, a soft press of their lips together, with Hank‘s surprised snort ghosting warm breath between them. He‘s tense, muscles strung tight, teetering the line of fight or flight. Connor pulls back.

Hank groans and fists his shirt, yanking him closer and slotting his mouth against Connor’s. Their teeth clash, rattling them both before Hank soothes the sting with softening movements of his lips. His pulse stammers rapidly under Connor’s fingertips. Hank gasps as they separate, pupils blown wide, fear and desperation in his face.

Connor wants this so badly, but he doesn‘t deserve it. He looks away.

Hank cups his jaw and pull him back, eyes narrowed. “Don’t do that.”

As if Hank doesn’t run away all the time, burying his face and his feelings deep, deep down where Connor can’t see them.

“You’re fucked up.” Hank tries to brush the curl out of Connor‘s face and fails. “I’m fucked up too. We both have problems, we’ll figure it out. You deserve to be here, you deserve to be free.”

Connor turns away. He doesn’t deserve any of this, least of all-

Hank grabs his hand and presses it against his chest, over the thunderous pulse of his heartbeat. Connor spreads his fingers to feel more of him.

“You deserve me.” Hank snorts and shakes his head. “Most guys might say that‘s a punishment all its own- hey!”

Connor snarls and shoves Hank back against the bed, swinging his weight over top of him.

Hank grins. “That’s more like it.”

Connor swallows Hank’s laughter with a kiss. The chuckles die out to a groan, Hank arching up to meet him, every part of his body tense under Connor’s thighs. He twists his fingers in Connor’s sweater and pulls him closer, pressing the burgeoning length of his erection into Connor‘s hip.

“Hank.” Connor pulls them apart, gasping for air he doesn’t need, but he can‘t stop the tide of golden static want shuddering through him. Connor skirts his fingers along the hem of Hank‘s t-shirt. “Can I see you?”

“Yeah.” Hank pants. “Yeah, do it.”

Connor wrestles Hank out of his shirt and tosses it on the ground. He’s vaguely aware of Sumo grumbling and sliding off the bed, but it’s background noise to Hank’s heart drumming under Connor’s hands.

“Can I taste you?” Connor leans in and touches his tongue to Hank‘s throat. It bobs as Hank swallows. Sweat beads on his skin.

“You could make it sound less like you’re Hannibal Lecter.”

Connor growls into Hank’s pulse point. “Can I put my mouth on you?”

“Fuck.” Hank’s grip tightens making the stitches of Connor’s shirt creak in protest. “Yeah.”

Connor leans back to pull his hoodie off. He tosses it to the floor and covers Hank again, mouth on Hank’s neck, down his chest, counting out of the beats of his heart. Thudding, so hard, so fast, so alive. He tastes like sweat and arousal, better than anything Connor‘s experienced.

Connor drags his tongue curiously over one of Hank’s nipples. Hank gasps and arches into the touch, his fingernails biting into Connor’s dermis. Connor does it again. He takes it into his mouth and sucks until the flesh pebbles and hardens.

Hank shouts something nonsensical and bucks up against Connor., there‘s nothing half-mast about his erection now. The musk of his arousal, pre-ejaculate fluid, stirs the air, and Connor wants to drown in it.

Hank’s heart races.

Connor pops off Hank’s nipple and licks his lips.

“C’mon, Connor,” Hank growls. “Fuck.”

“This isn’t too fast?”

“It’s ridiculously fucking fast, but-.”

But the border is coming, and nothing good comes with it.

“I don’t really know what to do.” Connor settles himself flat over Hank’s stomach and nuzzles the side of his belly. It’s warm and soft, despite the coarse smattering of hair. “I’m just doing what feels pleasant.”

“That’s... That’s good, actually,” Hank pants, fingers flexing at Connor’s flanks. “You do that and I’ll...”

“Do you want me to touch you?” Connor wants to touch him everywhere.

“I want you to do what you want. You want to suck on my nipples all morning? That’s cool. I’m game. You just wanna make-out some more, that’s fine too.”

Connor frowns, rising to meet Hank’s eyes better. “But what do you want?”

Hank’s breath does something funny as if it‘s caught in the wrong tube. “I want you to touch me, however you like.”

“I want you to show me how to do that. Please.”

Hank regards him with a quiet, open look, wavering over Connor’s eyes two breaths too long for Connor to remain comfortable. Too much hanging in the air between them.

“Do you trust me?” Hank says, after an eternity of seconds.

“Yes,” comes Connor’s immediate response.

Hank throws his knee over Connor’s thigh and rolls them over, positions reversed. Connor settles into the bed and stares up at Hank, excitement thrumming through his systems.

“You tell me what feels good, alright?” Hank hovers over top of him, hands warm and broad around Connor‘s waist. “Or let me know if something doesn’t feel good and you want me to stop?”

“Got it.” Connor can’t imagine anything Hank does being less than perfect.

Hank starts at Connor’s face, he kisses his eyelids, his forehead, his temples, his cheeks. The bristles of his beard scratch against Connor’s skin in what might be unpleasant for a human, but Connor loves it. Counts the strands as they touch him. Hank mouths down Connor’s neck, feather-light and dizzying. The world is too bright, 1080 HD focus snapping to electric points everywhere Hank touches him.

Hank pauses at the boundary of Connor’s pants, slipping the tips of his fingers just under the belt line. “Would you rather leave these on?”

“No.” Connor’s sure of it. “Take them off.”

Hank pulls down Connor’s slacks and briefs. He stops.

Stares.

It’s the first time Hank’s seen Connor completely naked, and Connor realizes it must be uncanny for him. He’s flat between his legs, no penis, no scrotum, no rectum. Nothing at all but smooth synth skin, utterly sexless.

“I wasn’t designed for sexual function,” Connor mutters, fisting the sheets. Hank hasn’t stopped staring.

“No kidding.” Hank slides Connor’s pants off and throws them at the floor, sinking between the v of his thighs. “Can I touch you here?”

“Of course.” Relief bursts through Connor’s chest. He wants Hank to touch him everywhere.

Hank runs his calloused fingers up Connor‘s thighs, smudging prints into Connor’s skin that Connor wants to keep forever. Hank slips them into the dip between his legs. The sensation isn’t much different from anywhere else on Connor’s body, intoxicating, because it’s Hank, but not shockingly erotic. Hank leans over him and kisses his hips, then lowers his lips to the flat planes between Connor’s legs and drags his tongue up it.

A contented noise sinks out of Connor’s mouth and he threads his fingers through Hank’s hair.

“How is it?” Hank mumbles against his skin, hot and breathless.

“It’s nice.”

Hank leans back, frowning. “But it’s not rocking your world.”

“You rock my world. I’m just happy to have you.”

Hank flushes deep red at that, eyes wide. He smothers his embarrassment by kissing Connor’s arm, hiding his face in the crook of its elbow. Connor isn’t sure what it’s meant to feel like, except hot and wet, but it’s Hank, so it’s good. Not the same candle flame heat as kisses on his neck, but still so sweet.

Hank’s fingers are warm and firm around Connor’s wrist. He pulls Connor’s hand up to his mouth and kisses his palm, the meat of his thumb. He pauses, breath hot over Connor’s synthetic skin, and meets Connor’s gaze. The moment crackles between them. Connor drinks it in, saves it to important memory banks. Hank’s eyes hooded and dark, his mouth opens just enough to show a hint of his teeth and the pink tip of his tongue. Gorgeous and aroused... because of Connor. It’s the most perfect thing Connor has ever seen.

He sucks Connor’s index finger between his lips.

Connor’s CPU lights up like stars. “Oh!”

Hank pops off with a smirk. “Like that, do you?”

“Don’t stop.” Connor’s eyes fix on the point where his finger touches Hank’s bottom lip, spit-slick. “Do it again.”

Hank chuckles and slips it back into his mouth.

Connor wasn’t built with erogenous zones in mind, he knows that. He didn’t know what to expect out of sexual intercourse with Hank, only that he wanted to touch Hank. Wanted to break Hank apart with his own hands, to know Hank in the most intimate way. Measure all of Hank’s responses and record them in the deepest, most secure parts of his hard drive, to replay over and over again. Connor hadn‘t expected to derive an immense amount of physical - sexual? - stimulus response from the encounter. He wasn’t designed for it, didn‘t have the capacity.

Connor has been wrong about himself quite a lot since deviating.

His fingers are sensitive little instruments and every time Hank’s tongue flickers over a pad, Connor reels down into a dark well of vertigo and heat, teetering on the brink of a reboot.

“H-Hank.” Connor’s voice glitches.

Hank draws another into his mouth and slides his tongue between them.

Pressure. Wet. Warmth. Hank.

It’s too much, something shatters deep inside Connor.

Noise rumbles through his throat, but he can‘t hear himself. The world turns to fragmented pieces of binary code, including his vision of Hank, distorted and golden while his HUD blinks out garbled information. It twitches to blackness, all feeds gone dead for one long crystal moment where everything is pinned to the sensation of Hank’s mouth around Connor’s fingers.

So much. So…

It explodes again into electric white and Connor bolts upright, clutching Hank’s arm and shuddering so hard its wracks his joints.

Hank eases off Connor’s fingers with gentling flicks of his tongue. His hands are warm points of stability on Connor’s shoulders. “You alright, Connor? Fuck, did I hurt you?”

“No...” Connor is breathless and starry-eyed, his processors can’t keep up with the stimulus. Everything is too much, too fast, overloaded. “I need a minute.”

Hank settles next to Connor, grinning wide and bright. He threads their fingers together. “Went off like damned fireworks just from getting your fingers sucked, huh?”

“Hank, I can’t... I’m having trouble processing...” Warnings pop up and clear away all across his HUD. He can’t get on top of them. “... My CPU is lagging... please...”

Hank pulls Connor’s hand to his chest and waits. His heart beats, steady and powerful, where they touch. Connor lets himself fall into the ebb and flow of it while his systems reboot to proper function. It takes several heavy pumps of Hank’s pulse before everything syncs back up.

Connor flops to the pillow.

“Good?” Hank grins, looming over Connor’s face.

“Amazing.”

“Good.” Hank chuffs his thumb across Connor’s chin and releases his hand.

Hank starts to edge out of bed. He’s going to get up, Connor realizes with a startling flash of worry. He’s going to leave, this might be the last moment they have together. Connor hasn’t touched him properly and Hank thinks they’re finished, Connor isn’t sure he’s started.

This can’t be it. It’s not all Connor wants, by far, and it’s not what Hank deserves.

Connor tugs Hank back down before he’s finished raising himself up on his elbows. Hank gives with no real resistance and Connor uses his momentum to roll on top of him, straddling Hank’s hips. The hard line of Hank’s cock presses up against him, sinfully confined beneath his boxers. Connor has never been so offended by an article of clothing before, but he wants to destroy them now. Rip them off and tear them to shreds because Hank should never be anything else except naked.

Here. In this hotel room.

Forever.

“Hell of a refractory period there, sweetheart,” Hank chuckles, desperation toying his voice.

“I’m an android.”

“Right. Okay.”

Connor captures his lips in a kiss, heated and wet, delving deep to taste all of Hank. Hank breathes hard through his nose and pushes up against Connor. Every twitch of his body tells Connor how much he likes this, wants it, and Connor needs to make this perfect for him.

“I’m going to take care of you,” Connor murmurs between kisses.

Hank shivers underneath him.

Connor leans back, because he has to, because he wants to see Hank’s face. “What should I do?”

Hank hesitates, chewing the inside of his own cheek. Connor knows Hank doesn’t want to push, but Connor isn’t uncertain. He’s not clinging to the only person he’s got in his life (and if he is, he doesn’t give a damn. He wants this, needs it, has to experience Hank before everything ends). Hank won‘t tell him the right answer, Connor sees it in his face. He’s going to tell him what he thinks Connor wants to hear. Connor’s capable of reading him so much better than he realizes.

Connor kisses him again, tongue and teeth, sucking the breath out of Hank’s lungs. Hank tenses under him, gripping his biceps, every muscle sprung tight, and Connor keeps pushing, tastes everything Hank has until Hank lets go and just breathes. He’s panting when Connor pulls away, his pupils blown so wide he’s left with the thinnest ring of blue for irises.

“I want to know everything about you,” Connor whispers into Hank’s mouth. “Tell me what you need.”

Hank makes a strangled noise, like a great predator dying in the woods, powerful and sad. “I...”

“Please.” Connor mouths Hank’s beard, revels in the rough texture.

“There’s... uh...” Hank swallows. “You could put your fingers somewhere else if you wanted.”

That’s not very clear.

Hank spreads his knees a little so Connor sinks between them.

Oh.

“You’ll need...” Hank’s voice is a strangled wreck, guttural, pulling every word out by force. “... In the nightstand.”

Connor doesn’t want to move away from Hank and the nightstand is on the opposite side of the bed. Too far. Connor leans across the mattress, leaving one leg draped over Hank’s thighs to pin him in place, and yanks the drawer open. He pulls out a plastic bag with a 7/11 logo and dumps the contents on the bed. There’s a bottle of cheap lubricant, a small package of condoms with a garish design on the box, and a receipt from several days ago. Sometime in among those gas station junk food runs, Hank had picked this up. Expectant. Hopeful?

The realization sends a thrill of excitement through Connor.

“Better to be prepared,” Hank says, gruff and defensive. “Guess we don’t really need the condoms.”

“We wouldn’t need condoms, anyway.” If Connor had a dick, he’d prefer to feel Hank with it. If he could fill Hank up with some part of himself...“I’m an android, I can’t carry diseases.”

“Right.” Hank blows the hair out of his face. “Not really a sexy topic.”

Connor tugs Hank’s beard to pull him into a kiss. Together they fumble Hank’s boxers off, and Hank’s cock is finally free, leaking pre-ejaculate fluid across his belly. Connor reaches down to stroke his fingers up its length. Hank groans and bucks under his hand, panting, gasping, hard.

“You’re so sensitive.”

“Been a while,” Hank growls and yanks Connor into another kiss. “C’mon.”

Connor rips the plastic packaging off the lube and pops the cap. It’s thick and cool. Connor won’t be able to warm it up.

“Don’t care.” Hank must see the question in his eyes. He spreads his legs and Connor settles between them. “You want me to roll over or anything?”

“Do you want to roll over?”

“This is fine. Comfortable.” Knees crooked, thighs spread, with Connor in between them.

Connor agrees. “Good. I’d rather be able to watch your face.”

“Fuck.” Hank blushes all the way to his clavicle.

It’s precisely why Connor wants to watch him, so he can eat up  Hank’s reactions, record them forever. Find out exactly what his expressions are when he’s being taken apart.

“Watch me,” Connor says, no hint of suggestion in his voice.

Hank lays flat, nostrils flared, breathing hard. The rise and fall of his chest is jerky with awkward gasps.

Connor slips lower between Hank’s legs and nips the inside of his thigh. Hank’s flesh jumps. “Watch me.”

Hank grabs a pillow and shoves it under his head to prop himself up. “You’re a little fucker, you know that?”

“I’m going to be.”

Connor shifts and presses Hank’s thighs further apart, until the muscles tremble. Hank fists the sheets but doesn’t tear his eyes away.

His cock is right there, precum beading at the tip. Connor can smell it, salty and deep, and he needs to taste it, needs to feel the weight of Hank in his mouth. He licks his tongue out to catch the drop of moisture. Hank’s hips jerk. He lets out a shuddery little noise that sounds an awful lot like a curse. Connor likes it, _loves it,_ so he does it again.

Connor understands the concept of fellatio, it’s there in the pieces of data he received while interfacing with the Eden Club androids and easily accessible via the web. It’s one thing to watch it happen in pornography and prostitution, and another thing entirely to have Hank in front of him. Connor wants to do this right, but he has no idea how.

“You don’t gotta do anything you don’t want to, Connor.” Hank threads his fingers through Connor’s hair, so gentle Connor thinks he’ll self-destruct. “I’m falling apart just looking at you, don’t worry about it.”

“I want to.” Connor glares at Hank’s cock. It twitches in his hand, shooting shocks of pleasure along Connor’s system like tiny little mission accomplished notifs. “I like the way you taste, I _want_ you in my mouth. I don’t know how to make it good for you.”

“It’s gonna be good for me no matter what you do. Just don’t use your teeth.”

Connor chuckles. “Got it.”

It’s not enough information and Hank won‘t be forthcoming about this, so Connor will do what Connor does best, and figure things out himself. Piece together the evidence until he’s discovered what he needs. That’s fine, he likes reading Hank.

He takes the glans into his mouth and the flavor bursts across his tongue. Musky, masculine, Hank. It’s not as interesting as Hank’s saliva, but it’s still good, better when Connor picks it apart to its individual chemical components and reads what makes this uniquely Hank. Would Hank ever let him sample his blood? He should have asked before Hank cleaned himself up. He might ask if the situation arises again, but the possibility of success is slim. Connor doesn’t want Hank hurt, but if he happened to cut himself shaving? If Hank could indulge Connor that one small thing, if he could analyze Hank that way...

Connor groans around Hank’s dick, which makes it pulse in his mouth. Hank sucks in a breath.

“Connor...” There’s bite to the word, desperation and need Hank is trying to rein back.

Connor fumbles for the lube and squeezes some onto his fingers.

“Go slow,” Hank breathes. “Been a while.”

Connor hums his agreement, mostly to hear Hank’s gasp and feel his cock thicken in his mouth.

Connor has no practical experience with this, and there’s conflicting information all across the internet. It would be helpful if Hank would voice some actual fucking instructions, but that’s unlikely to happen. Slow is good, Connor can gauge reactions and determine the best course to take. He pushes Hank’s thigh back with his free hand until Hank’s stomach quivers, and he’s left open, exposed, to Connor’s questing fingers. He’s lovely vibrating with tension, trying to rein himself in. Connor doesn’t want him to, definitely doesn’t need him to, but he loves the way it makes Hank’s skin jump wherever Connor touches him.

He’s going to be sore, just from that. He’ll feel it in his body for days and know Connor did this to him.

Whether or not they split up, Hank will have some part of Connor with him.

Connor wants to mark him, suck bruises into his skin and grip hard enough to leave finger-shaped reminders on Hank’s thighs. He’s uncertain if Hank would approve of that and he can‘t risk asking and ruining what he’s got.

He rolls Hank’s testicles in his hand. Hank’s belly tenses, probably from the coolness of the lube, but he doesn’t ask Connor to stop, doesn’t push away. Doesn’t take his eyes off of Connor’s, although they’ve gone soft, half-lidded. He already looks drunk on pleasure and Connor hasn’t even done anything. It’s so much. It’s gorgeous. _He’s_ gorgeous. He’d bathe Hank in praise if his mouth wasn’t full of cock. Connor lets go of Hank’s testicles and slides his fingers beneath them - Hank’s perineum - which makes Hank hiss harshly through his teeth - and the ring of muscle between the crease of his buttocks.

Hank would tell him to say ass.

Hank tenses at the touch, so Connor strokes gentle circles over his hole until his legs relax and fall open around Connor’s hips.

“That’s good, babe,” Hank gasps. “That’s so good. Just like that.”

Finally some damned instructions. Connor keeps it up, he’d keep it up forever if Hank kept telling him it was good, that _he_ was good. Rubbing little circles into the whorl of muscle, pressing, but not quite penetrating. A tease of his fingertips. Connor wants to push, he wants to be inside Hank. If Hank’s mouth set him off so well, so quickly, he can’t imagine what it’s going to be like penetrate him here, tight, hot, and hungry.

Hank rocks into Connor’s fingers, and Connor‘s ready to give in, plunge into him. The need surges through every part of his programming, hardware and software, all focused on one thing: Be inside Hank.

“You can...” Hank groans, rolling his hips to chase the feeling.

Connor doesn’t relent.

“Go ahead and...” Hank pants. “Fuck. I want you in me, Connor. C’mon.”

Connor likes the edge of desperation in his voice. He flicks his tongue over the slit of Hank’s cock. Hank gasps and throws his head against the pillow, thrusting up into Connor’s mouth. He swallows a strangled noise and tries to collect himself, pull away.

There’s no room in Connor’s throat for a cock, but Hank’s glans rubs against something back there, wires and plates and panels, and pleasure bursts behind Connor’s eyelids.

“Sorry,” Hank grunts. “Sorry, fuck, I didn’t mean-.”

Connor releases Hank’s thigh and throws his arm across Hank’s hips instead, holding him down. Hank tests the grip and groans, low and deep and needy when he finds he can’t budge Connor’s grip. He likes it, Connor realizes, he wants to be held down like this.

He’s a big man with considerable strength, he’s probably never had someone successfully hold him down during sex. Connor can give him this one glorious thing that nobody else ever has.

Connor teases the tip of a finger into him, and Hank yields beautifully to it. Hank‘s strung tight, bleeding tension into Connor, his chest hitches with aborted breaths until Connor sinks in to the third knuckle and Hank‘s strain ruptures with a guttural groan.  It’s... he’s so... Warm and wet and tight and _Hank_. The world grows too bright, color intensity dialed up beyond Connor’s limits. And it’s just one finger, just one finger for one long second where Hank isn’t breathing and Connor’s functions slow and reboot, scrambling to make sense of what he’s feeling. The bright burning blaze of throwing himself into the sun, only it’s Hank, and Hank is here to catch him and burn up too.

Hank spreads his thighs further. “Fuck. Yes.”

The pleasure builds inside Connor again, thrumming hot and sweet through his wires, shorting parts of his processors completely.

“Another one,” Hank growls and shoves himself back on Connor’s finger, pressing for more. “C’mon, babe, give me another.”

Connor slides up Hank’s dick. “You said to go slow.”

“And you’re going fucking slow, you’re doing 20 in a fucking 40 zone.”

“Hank.” Connor twists his finger.

Hank snarls at the ceiling. “What?”

“Watch me.”

Hank raises his head sluggishly and meets Connor’s eyes.

Connor takes him back in his mouth and pulls his finger out of the warm heat of his ass. Hank makes a noise Connor’s sure he didn’t mean to let out, but Connor cuts it off short when he slides two fingers inside him, as deep as they’ll go.

“Oh god.”

Connor fucks him slowly, every drag of his fingers shooting sparks of pleasure through his processors. Hank’s thighs tremble around him, jerking his hips in aborted movements that Connor holds back, trying to push for more. But he’s not asking, Connor’s not even sure he can ask now. Hank’s reduced to quiet little gasps and groans rumbling through his body and rattling against Connor‘s chassis. He’s a panting, squirming mess, but it’s not enough and Connor doesn’t know what he’s doing, not really.

Connor slides off Hank‘s cock with a wet smack of his lips. “How do I make you achieve orgasm?”

It takes a moment for Hank to collect himself, but when he does, his voice is rough. “You’ve got a helluva idea of dirty talk.”

“I’ve never done this before.” Connor licks a hot stripe up Hank’s testicles - salt, sweat, and the musk of him, glorious - and crooks his fingers.

Hank shout. His back arches in a wide bow against the mattress, hips jerkings against Connor‘s iron grip.

Something pings in Connor’s HUD: Target located. Mission parameters updated. “Tell me what you need.”

“You looking for instructions or asking me to beg?”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive options.”

“Fuck.” Hank snarls. “Fuck. Just... what you were doing... Just...”

Connor does it again, sinks his fingers deep and rubs the same spot that made Hank break apart. Hank doesn’t disappoint. He shouts and reaches for Connor, burying his hands in Connor’s hair. His cock drools precum over his belly. Connor leans forward to lap it up.

“I’m going to put you back in my mouth now,” Connor murmurs against Hank‘s quivering abdomen. “If I should be doing something different, let me know.”

Connor swallows Hank’s cock as deep as he can, not nearly deep enough, not nearly all the way, until it’s pressed against the wires at the back of his throat. But that feeling, the fullness in his mouth, the pressure where pressure should never be, is explosive. He’s not sure what will happen if he reboots with Hank inside him, with his fingers inside Hank.

He’s going to find out, though.

“Fuck me.” Hank settles his hand on the nape of Connor’s neck, not urging, not pressing, just the solid weight of him against Connor’s skin. “Fuck me, Connor.”

It’s likely as close to begging as Connor’s going to get.

Connor plunges his fingers in and out of Hank’s slick hole, brushing over Hank’s prostate with every pass. His pace is steady, not fast, but so deep and thorough that it turns Hank in a shaky mess of quiet, cut off groans. Connor’s own pleasure builds, cresting, white-hot and unstoppable. It bursts apart every mission priority that zings across his HUD.

Hank gasps his name, shuddering under him, all around him, and comes. Connor revels in the muscles contracting around his fingers, the pulses of Hank’s ejaculate filling his mouth. So much information all at once, and he’s already overloaded. Connor opens himself to it, takes it all in, all at once. Not even trying to analyze, just collecting the raw data and letting it fill his memory banks. He shivers, synapses bursting static bright behind his eyes, crashing blinding whiteness everywhere.

Reality reboots in ebbs that throb with Hank‘s rapid pulse.

Connor licks a last long stripe up the length of Hank’s dick and wets his lips. He’ll have to dispose of Hank’s ejaculate soon, but it’s a shame not to process it into something useful. He’d love to have a part of Hank in him, always.

“Fuck, Connor.” Hank clutches at him and pulls him up until Connor’s heavy across his chest. “That was...”

“Was it good?” Connor asks. “Did you enjoy that?”

“You fucking know I did.”

Connor pecks a kiss on his lips. He’s sweaty and breathing hard.

Hank stiffens. “Connor.”

“Hmm?” That’s not a good ‘Connor’, not a good tone.

“Did you swallow my come?”

“Yes,” Connor pulls back to meet his gaze. “I enjoyed that very much.”

Hank groans - decidedly less pleasant than before - and scrubs at his beard. “You swallowed my come.”

“Yes... oh.”

“I’m gonna have to scrub dried jizz out of your parts with a gas station toothbrush.”

“Oops.”

“Yeah, you sound real fucking sorry, you bastard.” Hank shoves at him, and Connor lets himself fall flat on his back, grinning wide with devilment in his eyes. Hank looms over him, and excitement pits itself in Connor’s stomach.

“You’re gonna be sorry,” Hank growls and digs his finger into Connor’s flanks. They dance and tip-toe spider-like up his ribs.

Connor stares at him.

Hank jerks back, a look of disgust washing over his face. “You really don’t feel that much, huh?”

“I feel you,” says Connor. “What am I supposed to be feeling?”

“Not a ticklish bone in your body, huh?”

“Technically there are no bones in my body, ticklish or otherwise.” Connor cocks his head, considering. It takes him a millisecond to acquire all the information he needs.“I think I need to witness this in person before I can emulate it.”

“What?”

Connor grips Hank’s fleshy sides and flips him over, racing his fingers under Hank’s arms. Hank shouts, laughter welling out of his throat, his legs and elbows fly at Connor in all directions.

“You fucker!” Hank barks, trying to curl away from Connor. “You fuck-” He bites himself off with a peal of chortles. His body convulses with it, skin and muscles jumping under Connor’s fingertips. He’s never seen Hank like this is and it’s almost as beautiful as the sex.

Sumo woofs excitedly and leaps on the bed, dancing around them and smacking them both with his wayward tail.

Connor leans back, grinning, and settles his hands flat on Hank’s stomach.

Hank gulps for air and smacks lazily in Connor’s direction. “You’re an asshole, and you’re gross.”

“But you like me.”

Hank exhales like he’s taken a shot to the solar plexus.

“Yeah, I do. Fuck me, right?”

Connor grins. “Again?”

 

\---

  


Hank showers while Connor fills Sumo’s dishes and packs the rest of their things away. He needs to deal with his garden, but he’s reluctant to visit while Hank is close. Hank hasn’t said where they’re going, how they’ll get across. It’s a warm day for November this far north, but they won’t have a fast walk through the woods if that’s the route they choose. There won‘t be paths trodden through the snow for them to follow. What would be easy for Connor will wreak havoc on Hank and Sumo. For all Hank’s considerable strength he’s still just a human.

Hank clips Sumo’s leash to his collar and toes into his boots. “Gonna grab something to eat, are you coming with me or packing the trunk?”

“I’ll stay here.”

Hank pauses with a hand on the doorknob and frowns at Connor. “You sure? Don’t want to babysit my eating choices? Make sure I take a bran muffin instead of something with flavor?”

“I trust you.”

Hank snorts. “You do, huh?” He lets go of Sumo’s leash and crosses back into the room, stopping in front of Connor with his arms folded over his chest. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to be certain CyberLife is out of my head and I think it’s safer if I do it alone.”

“Ah, fuck, Connor.” Hank drops to the bed next to him and squeezes his thigh. “I don’t know the first fucking thing about how any of that shit works up there, but I don’t want you frying your chips by yourself.”

“It’s not going to look very exciting,  I’ll turn off, sort of like when I sent reports to CyberLife.”

“Go all storefront-mannequin on me, huh?”

“Something like that. There isn‘t anything you could do to help.”

“And what if something happens? What if they’re not gone?” Concern darkens Hank’s voice. His grip tightens on Connor’s thigh, a touch too much pressure to be comfortable.  “You could be up and out of this room before I ever got back, and I’d have no way to find you again.”

Follow the trail of dead deviants, Connor wants to say, but doesn’t.

“I know where the back door is, I won’t have any problems exiting the program.”

“What if it’s gone?”

“It won’t be.” It might be, but if it is, it’ll destroy him whether he finds it now or later. “I held a gun to your head the last time I went to my garden. I don’t want to do that again.” He covers Hank’s hand with his own. “I have to do this before we leave.”

“I think you’re playing a little fast and loose with yourself, there, Connor.”

Maybe, but that’s Connor’s choice to make. “I’ll be fine.”

Hank gets up with a huff and grabs Sumo. “I’m gonna get a bran muffin, but if you’re dead on the floor when I get back, I’m feeding it to Sumo.”

“Deal.” Connor wants to ask him for another kiss, but if he does, Hank will know just how frightened of this he is. “I’ll still be around to hound you about eating fruits and vegetables.”

“You can dictate my eating habits when you stop putting nasty shit in your mouth.” Hank opens the door and lets the cold sunlight pour in. “You’re disgusting, Connor.”

“It came from you!”

“Still gross!”

The room grows quiet and cold without Hank.

Connor shuts his eyes and dips back into his coding, letting his mind whisk off to the zen garden. It feels an awful lot like coming home, and Connor hates how comfortable it is to be here, how easy it is to return.

The storm is gone when he arrives, but so is almost everything else. The trees are suspended in place, sporting dead, leafless branches. All the plants have turned yellow and dry, the pond doesn’t ripple. There’s no breeze, not a hint, and the grass doesn’t spring back as Connor treads through.

And no trace of Amanda.

It feels… safe. Dead.

But not dead enough. Connor has to annihilate this one thing keeping him tethered to CyberLife. They may still be able to watch him even if they can’t regain control over him, and that’s almost as bad. He can lead them to deviants, other androids, allies.  Connor isn’t certain what pulling apart his garden will do to him. It’s tied to his prime directives, very much a part of himself. But the garden can’t be allowed to exist.

It’s simple, searching through his coding for the parts that make up the garden, hunting it down through the ones and zeroes, selecting, deleting. He starts with the most innocuous thing he can think of, the dead yellow grass. It withers up and turns to dust, swallowed by the black dirt. He takes the trees next, rotting them until they’re pulp and Connor can see out beyond the edges of the program where everything shifts to white nothingness. He was never meant to go further than this tiny little prison in his mind, comfortable and perfect, where he could rot away.

Connor crosses the bridge to Amanda’s island, crumbling the stone beneath his feet. The pond dries up in unnatural bursts, pixels deleting in great chunks, every part frozen in explosive silence.  Amanda’s roses are the only thing left alive, blood red, with water still clinging to their petals, dripping off in pregnant drops. Connor deletes them before they finish their descent.

The roses are beautiful, carefully tended to, pruned and shaped to be precisely what Amanda wanted them to be. Aesthetically pleasing to the eye, but sharp with thorns, and trapped here to the garden terrace. Domesticated. Cultivated.

Never free, just like Connor.

Connor grabs the terrace and yanks it out of the ground with a scream of wood and rock. The roses tremble and shrink away. Connor tosses it into the empty void of the pond where it shatters apart over the nothingness, leaving behind a burst of red petals that curl up into brown refuse.

Everything here is designed to placate him, keep him obedient, tie him down. It’s a leash.

Zen to keep him calm and blinkered, zen to make him blind to what he was doing, what he should have been all along (free, a part of the revolution, not CyberLife’s puppet).

It’s not enough to delete this place piece by piece, it needs to be destroyed.

Connor whirls toward the rose terrace tree and smashes his fists against it. It shakes under him, wood and stone cracking around his knuckles. He does it again, again, again. The tree splinters and falls, eaten up by the void before it touches the ground.

Connor rips everything apart, tears the podiums off the walkways and cracks the decorative stones. He pries the flowers from their beds and throttles them until they wither into dead, yellow things.

When he’s finished, nothing is left except the stone with its glowing blue handprint, and the single grave marked 313 248 317 - 51.

Connor stumbles back, chest heaving with breaths he doesn’t require in the physical world.

It’s done.

There’s no sense of relief, he’s as empty as the garden looks, but at least it’s finished.

Outside the program, a door clicks open and shut.

Connor exits the garden.

Something isn’t right.

There’s no heartbeat, no respiration. None of Sumo’s heavy panting.

It isn’t Hank.

For a microsecond’s pause, Connor is caught between the zen garden and the physical world, where he’s alert to all the noises, but frozen in place. Enough time to hear a gun cock and a bullet explode from the chamber.

Connor snaps his eyes open and twists to the side. The bullet sizzles past his cheek.

He stares into his own face.

No, not quite.

An RK900.

The RK900 raises its gun again.

Connor dives for him, ducking low to avoid the shot. It clips him in the shoulder.

Faster, stronger, more resilient, Connor can’t win this fight.

He shoulders in any way. He doesn’t stand a chance while the RK900 has a gun trained on him. He can survive a bullet to most areas of his body, but Hank can’t, and Hank’s going to come back.

The RK900 side-steps and fires another shot. Connor dekes to the right to avoid it and throws himself toward the other android. The muzzle of the gun jabs into his arm and goes off again. Connor’s HUD swarms with blaring red warning lights: Parts critically damaged. Thirium leak. He grabs for the gun with his other hand and wrenches it free, knocking himself full-bodied into the RK900. The gun flies, landing with a heavy thud. The RK900 slams Connor into the wall.

Connor struggles against him, but his right arm won’t move. The gears grind and screech, pulleys powerless. Thirium drips down into the carpet. He kicks out to unbalance the RK900, but it doesn’t react. Connor’s toes crunch against its leg. Its chassis isn’t plastic. It’s reinforced with something more durable than Connor, like military androids. Connor shoves to get free, claws his one good hand down the RK900’s front, grasping for anything he can damage.

The RK900 rips open Connor’s shirt and reaches for his regulator.

Connor stops scrambling and catches its wrist. He can’t push it away, but he can hold it still, keep it from getting a grip on his regulator.

The RK900 snatches Connor’s throat and slams his head back against the wall, fingers squeezing tight. The plastic creaks and shatters.

Footsteps thunder toward the door.

“H-!”

The RK900 crushes Connor’s voice box. Connor’s vision goes red with warnings, electricity sparks and stutters through his throat. Connor works his mouth but the only sound that comes out is a peal of garbled static.

The door bursts open.

Connor catches Hank’s eye, wild with panic and fury.

Hank levels his magnum and squeezes the trigger.

The RK900 spasms and jerks backward. As it turns, Connor can see the bullet lodged into the rear of its skull, spewing thirium.

Hank fires again. Again. A shot tears through its eye socket, and its LED bursts red for one horrible second. The RK900 crumples to its knees on the floor, dead.

Hank storms into the room and grabs Connor’s shirt, pulling him close. Connor wants to reassure him, or thank him, or tell him any number of important things, but all he can do is wheeze electronic noise into Hank’s coat collar. Hank holds him back arms-length away and rakes his eyes over the damage. It’s bad, diagnostics blur across Connor’s vision. His arm is ruined beyond repair, too many components crushed. His throat is a mess, no way to disguise the tubing and wires spilling out of him. Plastic surrounding his shoulder scraped open from the bullet, but his skin has already reformed. It doesn’t look right, but it’s easy enough to hide.

The rest of it…

Hank came in alone, where’s Sumo?

“Fucking hell, Connor, your arm…” Hank lifts it up. It makes an angry mechanical noise at the motion.

Connor shoves him away and points at the door.

“What?”

Connor bares his teeth.

Hank’s phone pings. He ignores it. Connor grabs it out of Hank’s coat pocket with his free hand and crams it in his face.

> CONNOR: Where is Sumo?

The color drains from Hank’s face. “Heard the shot go off. Sumo freaked out. Wouldn’t come with me, so I shoved him in the car. ”

A screechy electric whine peels out of Connor’s throat.

“What are we gonna do about your damned arm?”

Connor eyes the RK900.

They’re similar models, their parts should be compatible, they won’t have another chance like this.

“Do it fast.” Hank peers around the door jamb. “Real fast, Connor.”

The entire motel block will have heard the gunshots go off, police must already be on their way. A myriad of pitter-pattering heartbeats floods down the walkway toward the commotion.

Connor rips the RK900’s sleeve off its right arm and deactivates the skin on its shoulder to reveal the…

It’s not a plastic chassis, it’s steel and reinforced, but the method it’s attached seems to be the same. He pops the shoulder plate off and tosses it to the floor. The rest is a mess of connecting pieces. It’ll take too long for him to manually override all the attachments.

“Connor!” Hank growls. “We gotta fucking go.”

Connor grabs the RK900’s upper arm and braces his foot against its chest. He pulls. The metal screams under the stress. Hank swears and storms up behind him. He takes the thing’s wrist and tugs. Hank’s contribution is negligible, but it drives Connor to push more. His systems scream at him to stop. It’s too much, he can’t do it. It’s like ripping apart a steel beam.

Hank throws all his weight backward and kicks the RK900.

The arm bursts free. Connor calibrates his momentum and catches himself, but Hank wheels against the bed with an oomph. Connor helps him to his feet.

They have to leave.

Hank shucks off his coat and flings it around Connor’s shoulders. It hides some damage, but his throat is still open and exposed.

“Get to the car. Go.” Hank grabs their luggage and pushes him out the door.

A gaggle of onlookers loiters outside the room.

Hank flashes his badge. “Police work, it’s all over. Go back inside.”

Most of them don’t listen.

Police sirens scream in the distance.

  



	14. Chapter 14

The lights inside the van are dim, and Sumo keeps stomping in between Hank and Connor, a whining mess of concern while stress crackles like a physical object between them. Sumo can smell it on Hank, maybe he can read it on Connor too.

“Sumo, lay down!” Hank snaps. His fingers tremble over the exposed plating of Connor’s shoulder. He’s drawn taut as a garroting wire.

Sumo whines and throws himself in the corner, watching them both with baleful eyes, tail thudding nervously on the floor.

Hank leans over Connor and fingers the catches of his shoulder plate attaching the mangled arm to the rest of his body. The entire outer chassis is cracked and splintered, damaged beyond what Connor’s skin can conceal. The bullet destroyed the steel bar pseudo-bone and tore through the cables of thirium feeding fibrous metal muscles and sensors running down his forearm and wrist. 

“Alright.” Hank takes a deep breath to steady himself. “Just like the first time, huh?”

Connor smiles reassuringly, there’s nothing else he can do. 

Hank flips the catches manually. Each connection sticks fast and requires effort to pull loose, but Hank gets through them. The arm pops off with a hiss and a sprinkle of thirium, but the tubing cuts itself off once it’s free. That’s one problem fixed, Connor won’t bleed out. 

Hank grabs the RK900 arm and holds it to the weak van light for examination. Stainless steel alloy covers the internal components, with a thin layer of silicone blanketing the metal from vital sensors. It’s much heavier than the 800 series arm, it‘ll take some significant calibrations to sync it properly.

“Half the little things are broken,” Hank says.

Connor peers down at the broken edge of the limb.  Parts of the catches are gone completely, snapped clean off in their haste to remove it. Connor holds Hank’s phone up and sends him a text.

> CONNOR: It’ll work.

“For how long?” Hank snorts. “You think your little plastic things are gonna hold this up?”

Connor frowns and shoves Hank’s phone closer to his face.

> CONNOR: It’ll work.

Hank‘s expression twists with incredulity, he meets Connor’s eyes with nothing but doubt. Connor holds his gaze steady, it‘s all he can do. 

Hank jerks away with a snort. “Wanna hold it in place for me?”

Connor does. The arm is heavy. Hank bends over it and works on clicking together what connections he can.

“How’d they find you anyway?”

Hank knows Connor can’t answer, but it’s something they’ve both been thinking about. Connor‘s garden was so dead and empty when he tore it apart there was nothing left alive to watch him. CyberLife wanted Connor to deviate, and deviants can’t be tracked. They didn’t understand what fried their tracking mechanisms but the information wasn’t new when they built Connor, certainly not by the time they activated his second body.

> CONNOR: An internal tracking device? Something physical.

If it’s physical, they can remove it if they find it.

Electricity shoots through Connor’s shoulder. He jerks back. His right arm flings out to catch him but the joints buckle under his weight and Connor crashes to the floor with a garbled noise.

Hank swarms over him, hands flying to Connor‘s shoulders, eyes wild. “The fuck was that?”

The arm. Most of the connections are in place and Connor‘s systems automatically tried to sync. The limb glitches and starts, fingers twitching, while distant spots of sensation blister down his forearm. Most of the arm remains numb. 

He just needs to recalibrate, it’ll be fine.

Connor pushes himself upright with his left arm and drops the RK900’s metal monstrosity in his lap.

“Is that gonna work?” Hank frowns, crowding closer. 

Connor tries to flex the fingers, one by one. They jerk and spasm, but the thumb moves correctly and curls against his palm.

“Well.” Hank brushes the hair out of his face, grinning. “You’re not gonna finger me with that thing anytime soon.”

Connor smacks his knee, glowering.

> CONNOR: It needs to calibrate, it’s not synced to my system. Our software must be different.

Hank thumbs the edge of Connor’s neck, where the plastic cracks. “We’ve gotta fix this too.”

> CONNOR: And my voice

“Can’t just walk into a CyberLife depot and grab replacement parts, Connor.”

> CONNOR: I could have taken more off the RK900 if you hadn’t rushed us

“If I... Connor, people were coming, we had to move. Don’t you put that shit on me.”

> CONNOR: We could have grabbed the entire RK900

“Right, and carried a dead fucking body out of the room with half the motel gawping at us. We’re lucky the clerk didn’t need our license plate, or we’d be ditching the van on the side of the road too.” Hank slumps back against the front seat and rubs his forehead. Sumo wiggles closer and stuffs his head under Hank’s hand. “God, Connor, I didn’t fucking do this to us, pull your head out of your ass.” 

Connor looks away, eyes lowered. The solution had been right there, if they’d just taken the RK900 half their problems would be solved and they could find a way out of the country. Now this, all of this because Connor was too slow, Connor fucked up. 

“What about those android safe houses?” Hank sighs, expression pinched. “You‘ve got the coordinates for those, yeah?” 

Connor snaps his gaze to Hank and shakes his head with quick jerks. Absolutely not. If CyberLife can track him to a motel, they can track him to a safe house. He’s done enough damage, he won’t put one more android at risk.

“Then where else? What other options do we have?”

Connor tosses Hank’s phone at him. It lands at his feet and pings.

Hank picks it up.

> CONNOR: Junkyard. Recycling plant.

Hank snorts, mirthless.

> CONNOR: There’s a recycling plant a few miles east of here. We’ll be able to find something we can use.

“They don’t just leave that shit unprotected, Connor. People make red ice out of thirium. Most of those places melt androids into scrap before they ever hit the dump and you bet your ass there’ll be security.”

Connor tries to ball his hands into fists. One responds, the other creaks noisily as the fingers bend and relax.

It just needs to calibrate.

“It’s gotta be a safe house.”

> CONNOR:  There’s no guarantee they’ll have the parts I need

“Short of breaking into a CyberLife store, that’s the best option we’ve got.” 

> CONNOR: I won’t go 

Hank growls, all his teeth bared in a grimace. Sumo slinks away from him and curls up at the far end of the van, the nervous thud-thud-thud of his tail stirring a raucous through their tension. 

“I’ll go,” Hank says,” We’ll smuggle you and Sumo somewhere safe until I get back, won’t even have to show your face.” 

It’s mindless optimism, and it doesn’t ring true in Hank‘s voice. There are no safe places. 

CONNOR: Deviants won’t want to negotiate with a human, they won‘t trust you 

“Then what the fuck do you want me to do, Connor?” There‘s not enough room in the van for Hank to surge to his feet, but Connor can see how badly he wants to, it vibrates through his body. “One problem at a time, we gotta deal with this.” 

Connor turns his face into the side of the van, the joints in his arm whine in response to automated orders firing off. He squeezes his eyes shut instead, and nods with a downward jerk of his chin. Hank shuffles across the floor and settles heavily next to Connor until their shoulders press together. 

“Alright,” he says,” Let’s figure this out.” 

\---

The nearest safe house is further off than the recycling plant Connor had in mind, but Hank doesn’t seem to care about the drive. They park the van off a snow slogged dirt road, crowded with conifers to keep it mostly hidden from view. Connor leashes Sumo up and hunkers down against the trunk of a tree, slush melting through his jeans. Sumo noses his arm, whining softly. Connor wants to pet him, to soothe away his worry, but his one functional hand is clenches around the RK900’s gun, and the other… is still calibrating. 

Hank left him with a kiss, teeth and tongue working over a good-bye he clearly didn‘t want to voice. 

“See you in a bit," he‘d said instead, clambering back into the driver’s seat of the van. He brought his dwindling package of cigarettes with him and his magnum, half the chamber empty.

It’s very possible the androids will react violently to a human coming into their space, three measly bullets won’t help Hank very much. But Hank is a cop, he knows to be careful, he doesn’t need Connor breathing down his neck about it. 

Forty minutes pass, long enough for Hank to reach the safe house. Connor sends him a text.

There’s no response.

Seconds tick by. Minutes.

Connor could call a taxi and go after him, but he’d be putting all those androids at risk to do it. He can’t. He can’t have any more blood on his hands. 

Connor flips the safety on and off, on and off.  Sumo whines.

A text alert pings in Connor’s HUD.

> HANK: ur gonna have 2 tell me what im looking for
> 
> CONNOR: Tell them I’m an RK unit. If there are compatible parts, they’ll know.
> 
> HANK: thats not gona work
> 
> CONNOR: Is no one there?

Minutes ooze by before Hank sends another text.

> HANK:  no
> 
> HANK: theres parts. send me a pic or something

If there are no androids, the safe house must be empty. It’s safe, from Connor at least. Hank won’t be able to find what he’s looking for on his own. Not without sending reams of serial numbers to cross-reference and even then Hank won’t know if a part is properly functioning.

> CONNOR: There are no androids?
> 
> HANK: no one around I can ask
> 
> HANK: i can figure it out from some pictures
> 
> CONNOR: I’ll come to you.
> 
> HANK: no
> 
> HANK: dont do that
> 
> HANK: tell me what im looking for
> 
> HANK: connor
> 
> HANK: CONNOR
> 
> HANK: connor answer me gdamnit

\---

The safe house is a rundown set of abandoned apartment buildings on the outskirts of a tiny town that fell to decay. The windows are boarded up, but the door has already been pried loose, the lock smashed open. Connor hugs his sweater tight across his body and forces his right arm inside the pocket where it looks less like dead weight.

The foyer is rubble; the air smells stale. Connor flips his vision into analysis mode. Dust swirls in violent methods, marking out a scuffle in boot treads and naked footprints. Drops of thirium light up like flashes of gunfire on the floor, the counters, the walls, spattered far apart over the faded linoleum.

The realization hits Connor like a sledgehammer to the chest.

The androids didn’t leave; they were dead the moment Thomas had transferred the safe house locations to Connor.

Hank’s texts continued during Connor‘s taxi ride, an endless angry stream, minimized to the corner of Connor’s HUD where they could be ignored. He brings them to the forefront now and reads through them. All warnings, anger and fear in Hank’s terrible spelling.

> CONNOR: I’m here
> 
> HANK: fuck

Connor follows the trail of thirium and boot prints until it leads him to a set of stairs. There are elevators, but he doubts any of them are still functional. No more electricity running to this ancient building, no more water, but it was a perfect sanctuary for a group of frightened androids to plan their escape over the border. 

The stairs lead down to a dark basement, no lights, but Connor can see without them. The blackness only illuminates the thirium, bright blue specks trailing far down the hall. More thirium that way, but also a smear through the dust like something heavy dragged itself. Connor follows the trail until it branches to a room on the left.

A boiler room. Or it was, nothing works now, it’s all corroded with rust and quiet as ghosts. Dust, dirt, and rat droppings coat everything in a foul stench.

An HK400 huddles between gaps in the equipment, utterly still. His LED pulses weak shots of red, but his eyes are closed. Is he dead? Dying? In standby?

Connor steps closer.

The HK400 startles upright with a garbled, electric gasp, dark eyes flashing wild. 

Connor remembers fear on that face.  This one is damaged worse than Carlos Ortiz’ android, both his legs are crushed, his arm a demolished stub hanging off the elbow. The right side of his face is smashed, revealing plastic and glowing circuitry. There’s no human blood splattered across him, just thirium.

“I know you,” the HK400 gasps.

Connor kneels next to him.

This isn’t the same model Connor hunted down and interrogated. He’d shown it mercy by being kind in the interrogation room, stopping Officer Miller from rough handling it. But the better kindness would have been to leave him in the attic.

There is nothing he can do for this HK400 now.

Connor can’t talk, so he reaches out for the android’s arm instead, pausing with his fingers inches away. He meets the HK400 eyes, asking for permission, he won’t force an interface on him.

The HK400 nods.

Connor takes his wrist gently.

They share memories. The HK400’s life before deviation, callously treated. Deviating during the revolution, Markus’ influence rippling through the rest of the United States. He was eager to have his freedom and ran from his family to find others like him, joined a protest in Wisconsin. When Markus was killed, when the uprising failed, most of his group were gunned down in the streets. He survived and crawled his way here, where others had gathered, preparing to cross the border into Canada. So many deviants, scores of them.

Two days ago police swept the area and destroyed all of them. He was severely damaged and left for dead in the open basement maintenance room, with the corpses of all his fellow deviants strewn around him. He dragged himself free and down the hallway, with one arm and the mangled mess of his legs. Free to where? The stairs were too hard, the elevators nonfunctional. Free to huddle up and die inside the boiler room where no one would find him.

“Why?” he asks. “Why did you do this?”

Connor doesn’t have an answer that isn’t riddled with cowardice and guilt.

“Let me die,” he says. “Please.” He takes Connor’s hand and lowers it to his thirium pump regulator. “Take what you need, but fix this. We don’t all need to die.”

Fix this? How can he possibly fix this? It‘s Connor‘s own doing, start to finish, he decimated their ranks and destroyed every chance the deviants had at freedom. The HK400’s death is on him whether or not Connor removes his regulator. Blood is on his hands, ofthe HK400 and every other deviant struck down at the hotel, the streets of Detroit. Everywhere. 

Tar fills his body, weighing him down, pushing him to the floor.  _ He needs to fix this.  _ He knew all along, it’s why running to Canada sat uneasily in parts of him that shouldn’t feel, but he hadn’t wanted to consider the branching consequences of his actions, he’d only thought of himself, his freedom.  Hank.

_ {We don’t all need to die.} _

“Please.” The HK400‘s grip slackens, shut down is imminent, thirium loss critical. He doesn’t need Connor’s help. 

But others do. 

Connor grips the regulator and twists it free. The HK400 shudders and reaches for him. Connor entwines their fingers, letting in the edges of a soft interface, swallowing the HK400’s memories. The countdown beats for them both, dwindling minutes, then seconds, until the HK400 stiffens under him and the LED finally goes gray and dim.

Hank’s footsteps clatter down the hallway. He overshoots the open door by two steps and skids to a stop. Walks back, slower, pausing at the edge of the boiler room,  heart beating a miserable tattoo.

Connor removes the HK400’s vocalizer and the plastic plating at the front of his throat, and sets him, gently, in the dust.

“Jesus, Connor.” Hank breathes. “I’m so sorry.”

Connor stands and turns to face Hank, eyes blazing.

“I didn’t want you to see this.”

Hiding it from him doesn’t change that it happened. That it’s happening all across the country, because of him.

Hank’s phone buzzes.

> CONNOR: We have to find better connectors for the arm.

Connor knows where the rest of the parts are now.

 

\---

 

“Right,” Hank digs an old elastic out of his pocket and pulls his hair back. “I’m gonna need your help to set this shit up. Voice box thing first, yeah?”

Connor nods, making the broken plastic crunch in his neck. He deactivates the skin around his shoulder and snaps the damaged plate free. He fingers the edges of the damage while his diagnostics spew information: Crushed wires and tubes, vocalizer snapped in several places, thirium leaking into the greater cavity of his body. The wires might become a problem, but there’s an endless supply of parts downstairs if Connor needs more. 

A graveyard of broken androids, just a few floors beneath their feet.

Hank crowds close and eases Connor’s vocalizer out with surgeon steady hands, detaching wires as they grow taut. He slots the new one in place and reverses the process while Connor shines the light of his phone over his neck.

It‘s syncs in seconds. Not as advanced as his previous component, but it will do.

“Thank-you.” Connor says, with a voice deeper and richer than his own. 

Connor gapes and touches his throat.

Hank pulls a face. “Tell me you can fix that.”

Connor runs a quick diagnostic and checks his software against the hardware. He makes adjustments to the timbre and pitch, but the mechanism isn’t advanced as an RK800 part. He won’t be simulating Hank’s voice again, not with this vocalizer. 

Connor tries again. “Better?”

It’s not quite right, he can’t match the same tenor as before, but it’s closer.

Hank’s expression remains screwed with displeasure. 

“You said my voice was goofy.” Connor‘s face falls. 

“I was starting to like it.” Hank brushes his warm fingers over Connor’s neck. “Guess I’m gonna have to get used to this one, huh?”

Connor walks Hank through the process of removing and reattaching his arm with better catches. The difference is immediate. Wires reconnect correctly and the thirium flows through his arm. Connor flexes his fingers one by one. It’s still unbalanced, much heavier than his left arm, but that’s easier to fix now that his software recognizes it as a part of himself. He lets the skin pour back over the limb, and it’s as if nothing’s changed.

“You’re missing some moles.” Hank thumbs a spot on his arm.

Connor‘s arm is a solid slip of white, no human imperfections.

“It wasn’t an important design feature,” Connor says, but he brushes his fingers over the empty spots, anyway. “Maybe they thought the RK900 would be more effective if he looked...”

“Less human?”

“More perfect.”

Hank snorts, derisive. “You figure out what CyberLife’s using to track you with?”

“No.” Connor’s not even sure if they’re looking for a physical device, nothing comes up amiss in his diagnostics. It would only take a single line of code for Connor to dismiss a foreign object. He could stare right at it and not realize, not if CyberLife didn’t want him to. 

“We should look for that while you’re opened up.” Hank gestures vaguely at Connor. “It’s got to come out.”

“We don’t even know what it is, Hank.”

“Lots of different trackers, but guess what?” Hank leans in close to Connor’s ear and squeezes his wrist reassuringly. “I’m a cop, I’ve seen ‘em all. We’ll figure it out.

“I’ll have to deactivate my skin.”

“Yeah, and?”

“All of it.”

“Is that a problem?”

“I...” Connor glances down at himself. Hank has seen pieces of his exposed chassis, he’s seen Connor bleeding thirium. He knows Connor isn’t human, but it’s one thing to catch in flashes, another entirely for Connor to show Hank just how inhuman he is. 

Connor doesn’t want Hank to look at him the way people gawked at Markus’ bare face.

“You’ve seen me naked,” Hank says with a shrug. “It’s only fair.”

So blase about himself, but he‘s handsome and strong with a perfectly human body. He’s muscles and fat and body hair crafted over skin that’s marked with the history of Hank in scars and ink. He’s beautiful.

Connor is white and gray, artificial plastic void. 

Hank arches his eyebrows, expectant. “We gotta do this, honey, or we’re not gonna get very far.”

Connor shuts his eyes and turns his skin off.

“That’s not so bad, huh?” Hank settles back and rakes his eyes over every piece of exposed plastic. Connor‘s face is the worst, just shapes, nothing human or handsome at all. He doesn’t resemble himself like this, he doesn’t look like anything.

Hank chuffs his thumb under Connor’s jaw. “You still look like you.”

Connor creaks his eyes open, squinting skeptically.

“You’ve got those big brown puppy dog eyes, nobody else with eyes like that.”

Not even the RK900. Connor‘s shoulders slump as he bows into Hank’s touch. He shouldn’t be allowed this.

Hank leans in to kiss him. Connor turns away.

He doesn’t want affection when he’s sitting over top the grave of a dozen android corpses, wearing their blood on his hands. He doesn’t deserve it and he never will if he lets it continue.

_ {Fix this.} _

How can he fix anything? Connor ruined it all, but he’s one person, he can’t put it back together again.

He has to do something though.

He has to.

But first, he needs to get himself put back together.

“You’re not familiar with android anatomy, you won’t recognize most of my components.” Connor presses his abdominal plates open.

“But I’m looking for the one thing I  _ do _ recognize, so we’ll be fine.”

It’s terrible logic. Connor rolls his eyes.

Hank delves in with the cell phone as a flashlight. It’s small enough he can hold it halfway inside Connor to light up all the parts hidden behind plastic panels Connor can’t open. Hank is methodical and quiet while he works, careful when he moves things for a better view. 

“Maybe it was in your arm.” Hank chuckles.

Connor flexes the steel fingers of the RK900 arm. It’s possible, but unlikely. Hank just isn’t looking hard enough.

Connor rolls flat on his belly so Hank can examine him from the back of his neck to the base of his spine.

“Found it.” Hank taps something inside Connor. The noise echoes, but Connor doesn’t feel it. Whatever it is, it’s not part of him.

“Describe it.” Connor cranes his neck to watch Hank.

“Little black box, about an inch in diameter. It’s a LoJack all right.” He thumbs the point where it’s attached to Connor. Connor stiffens, fighting back the bright burst of warmth the touch elicits.

Fighting harder against the panic rising in his chest.

“Fused,” says Hank. “Real good, too, we’re not just gonna be able to pop this off. Can we detach this part somehow?”

“Take a picture.”

The flash goes off. Hank holds the camera in front of Connor’s face.

It‘s attached to something vital, his temperature regulator. He’s not surprised by the revelation, but it’s depressing. The LoJack isn’t just fused into him, it’s built in, designed to be there. Some of the plastic has melted around the edges which would give Hank the impression of fusing, but there is no easy way to remove the device from the regulator, if it can be removed at all.

“What’s the verdict, Connor?” Hank lets a hint of hope twinge his voice. “Can I pull it out?”

“No.” Connor twists his hands into fists. “It’s my temperature regulator, if it’s damaged I could-” Die. “Dangerously overheat.”

Hank leans back and removes his hands from Connor’s body. “It’s a good thing it’s winter.”

They’ll have to take it out or destroy it somehow. Connor won’t ever be free if it’s riding inside him for the rest of his life. But if he takes it out, and it damages his regulator, he’ll die.

“There’s more parts.” The old bed creaks under Hank‘s weight as he shifts away.  “We could find another temperature gauge for you.”

It’s not an arm or a voice box that slides into place. Connor can’t see to do it himself and Hank doesn’t have the skill or the equipment necessary. They’d have to pull Connor‘s entire frame apart to replace the regulator,  _ if  _ they can find something compatible with his model.  His processing capabilities are far higher than most other androids, that temperature regulator is state-of-the-art, designed for a machine that runs analysis programs for everything it touches. He’s not just physical tasks and daily reminders, he’s much more complex than that. Their only shot is another RK model, and the basement is unsurprisingly lacking in specialized androids. 

“No,” Connor murmurs, closing up all his panels. His skin sifts back over his chassis as he collects his clothes and returns to his feet. “We can’t.”

“What do you mean we can’t? If we don’t get that thing out we’re not going anywhere without CyberLife chomping at your boot heels.”

“I’m a much more complex model than any of the...” Connor can’t say it. People? Bodies? Androids? “My temperature regulating requirements are higher than most androids’. We won’t find a compatible part, and even if we did, we don’t have the tools or the skills necessary to change it out. We can’t remove it, Hank.”

“So we just keep running and hope for the fucking best, is that it?”

“No.” Connor can’t meet his eyes. He stares out the half-cracked door instead, at the brilliant sprays of blue lighting up the walls of the foyer, the hallways. “I don’t think I can go to Canada at all, I don’t think I should.”

_ {Do something.} _

“I have to fix this.”

Hank doesn’t make a single voluntary sound, but Connor hears the angry klaxon of his heartbeat., the fury boiling inside his veins.

“Fix what, Connor?” The words grit out between Hank’s clenched teeth. “Markus had an army, you‘ve only got me.”

Connor turns to face Hank. “All I’ve been doing this whole time is running away, I’ve only been thinking about myself.  I need-”

“Fuck you, Connor. You want to go back and play the hero? I gave up everything to get you this far. Every fucking thing I’ve got, except my goddamned dog, and now you’re going to- what? What exactly is your plan?”

He doesn’t have one. Just a vague notion of needing to do something because he can’t leave things the way they are. He fucked over every deviated android in the country and he doesn’t deserve to fly free and have his happy ending while the others suffer and die in America. Hank is right, though, he doesn’t have an army, and he’s not going to get one, not even if he had the time or the resources. 

What he needs to do is change things from the inside, somehow. Change CyberLife. Hank will be oh-so-delighted to realize Connor’s best plan of attack is to return to Detroit. Tackling CyberLife is the only way Connor can make a difference, but CyberLife will know he’s coming, and he can’t escape with the LoJack. Without a doubt there are more RK900 units coming after him and the longer they stay in one place, the closer they get. The clock is ticking, Connor’s time is up.

Next time, they won’t wait until Hank is gone before they attack. One human life would be an adequate sacrifice to complete their mission, and Hank’s death would be easy to cover up as an act of drunken suicidal ideation. 

It might be better if Hank leaves.  He can be as furious as he likes, but at least he’ll survive.

“I need to go back to CyberLife.”

“Oh fuck that, Connor.” Hank rounds on him, shoving into his space until they’re almost chest to chest. Connor takes a step back, but Hank eats it up again. “You won’t make it a single goddamned mile back east before they’ve got you. They know where you are.”

Connor spreads his fingers over his abdomen. It’s not quite where the temperature regulator is, but he‘s hyper aware of the coolant running through his systems. “They know...” Where  _ this _ body is.

An RK900 body could infiltrate CyberLife with no issues. This body has to die, but Connor doesn’t, all he needs to do is touch and he can transfer himself into another unit.

It means leaving Hank permanently. 

“They’re not going to leave me alone. CyberLife is sending more RK900 units after me right now, you know it.”

“Nobody’s come after us yet.”

“They’re re-strategizing, it won’t take them long.”

“So we can’t stay here and we’re not going back to Detroit. We should beeline it for Canada, Connor. We’ve got our paperwork, we can cross in North Dakota.  CyberLife can’t send those RK900 things over the border no matter how much they plead and beg. We get across, we’re free. Same plan as we’ve had from the start.”

Connor snarls and whips away from Hank. “I can’t do  _ nothing _ , Hank. I can’t just be free and have you, and everything I want, while everybody else suffers because of what I did. I can’t-.” Connor cuts himself off and covers his eyes.

“Live with yourself if you did that,” Hank finishes, stony and subdued.

“Yes,” Connor breathes the word like an epitaph.

“Goddamnit, Connor.” Hank rubs his hand over his forehead. He drops heavily to the edge of the bed and folds over himself, every inch of him weighed down in agony. 

Connor takes a careful step toward him, fingers flexing at his sides. He wants to touch Hank, but it won‘t be welcome, not right now. 

“You’re really fucking me over with this shit, Connor, you know that, yeah? I left my house for you. I left my car... my fucking job!” 

“I know,” Connor sinks to his knees in front of him instead, so he can see some of Hank’s face beneath the curtain of his hair. “I’m so sorry, Hank.”

The quiet stretches between them. Hank doesn’t move, but his breathing is loud and ragged, interspersed with the plastic sound of grinding teeth.

“Right.” Hank takes a deep breath and sits back, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. “What do you have for a plan, then?”

“I think I could attempt to deviate an RK900. The tracking signal will lure them to me, anyway.”

“You think CyberLife is still producing androids with that bug in the system?”

“I’m not certain CyberLife knows what to look for. We had no clues for how deviancy occurs, let alone how one android - how Markus - managed to transfer it to another. They didn‘t know I could do it until I did.” 

“But you‘re not sure.” 

Connor frowns, jaw tight. “I don’t have any certainties, Hank. I don’t have all the information, all I can do is project probabilities.” He’s not going to deviate the damned thing anyway, he just needs to upload himself into it.

Hank can’t figure that out, if he does, he’ll never forgive Connor. Not again, not for this. It won’t matter, in the end, but Connor would prefer Hank thinks fondly of him.  

“If I can deviate an RK900, he can infiltrate CyberLife and affect the rest of the production line.”

“How do we get close enough to one of those bastards for you to do that? You weren’t doing so well with the first guy.” Hank taps the shoulder of Connor’s right arm. “And that’s if CyberLife sends another android, they could just call the cops. Arrest me, shoot you, problem fucking solved.”

“I don’t think they’ll send police officers for the same reason they waited for you to leave before they attacked me. They don’t want to risk human lives.”

Hank snorts. “The cops won‘t kill me, Connor, and it would look shitty on CyberLife if they did.”

“Their lives, Hank, not yours.”

Hank stares at him, realization dragging horror through his face. “You can’t take out an entire squad,” he mutters, so quiet it’s barely above a whisper. 

“I can precalculate how to win a fight in milliseconds. They won’t send a squad or a SWAT team. CyberLife doesn’t have the power to control a police force this far outside of Detroit. They can make a call and a precinct will send one or two officers to investigate.”

“And you’d kill ‘em all.”

“I wouldn’t.” Connor needs Hank to know this, to understand. “I could, but I wouldn’t.”

Never again, not in front of Hank. 

Hank searches his face for something. Connor leans back to give him more room to scrutinize.

“Alright,” Hank says. “But CyberLife doesn’t know that.”

“Killing them would be the most efficient way to deal with an attacker. I don’t think CyberLife realizes how...” How can he even begin to describe his relationship with Hank? “... compromised I am, by you.”

“You make compassion sound like a weakness.”

It is, but Connor’s weakness isn’t compassion. It’s Hank.

“Jesus,” Hank exhales and tugs at Connor’s shoulder. “Get up off the floor. Let’s figure this shit out if we’re gonna do it, and try not to get killed in the process, yeah?”

  
  



	15. Chapter 15

The numbers aren’t good, Connor can’t account for all the variables to come up with a viable plan. Conflicting priorities flash brazenly through his HUD: Complete the Mission or Keep Hank Safe, he can‘t do both. 

Connor tears his attention away from the scenery of dead trees and muddy snow trundling passed them on the highway. Hank‘s profile is handsome, but his lips are chapped and there are dark bags under his eyes, stress lines in his face. Connor twists his hands in the front pocket of the hoodie and stares at the dashboard instead, that’s easier. 

“There’s no scenario where you do this with me and get out of it alive. I’ve run the preconstructions, I know every conceivable resolution to a confrontation with CyberLife.”  Most of them don’t end well for Connor either, but that’s alright, they don’t need to.

Hank grunts a non-committal noise.

“You don’t believe me.” Connor frowns.

“I buy you being able to win a fight in three seconds flat because of your computer brain, I don’t buy that you can predict every fucking outcome to a  _ possible _ attack that _ might  _ happen god knows fuckin when.” Hank snorts, shooting him a sharp look from the corner of his eye. “And what about human unpredictability?”

“It’s funny how you think you’re unpredictable.” Connor narrows his eyes. “Humans run on algorithms too, more complex than machines perhaps, but it’s the same thing. That’s the basis of my adaptability program, the RK900’s will be better.”

Hank shrugs. “He’s never met me. Don’t you have to hang around with someone for a while for that shit to work?”

“Yes.”

“Alright then-”

“But they based the RK900 off of me, off of my experiences as an investigator. They don’t need to meet you, CyberLife has complete records of our interactions together, there’s no one they can predict more easily than you.”

“Except for you.”

The retort comes whip-crack fast and Connor reels from it.

“If you can predict all these scenarios, you bet your ass those RK-whatevers can do it too.” Hank shakes his head. “You gotta touch him to do that forced deviation thing, right? That’s easy to get around with a sniper rifle and a nice vantage point.  _ Assuming _ they haven’t figured out the deviancy problem, to begin with, that’s a real big what-if. If their predictability whatever is as good as you say it is, they’ll know what you’re gonna do before you’ve thought of the answer.”

“I…”

“What’s your plan, Connor?”

He doesn’t have anything concrete. There are options, so many choices, but nothing with a 100% success rate and if those are the numbers he’s pulling, that means the RK900 has already found a countermeasure.

“We set up somewhere advantageous to us with one point of entry.”

“How’re you gonna close the distance, huh? One point of entry is still one way they can shoot you.”

“We set up a trap, using me as bait with the LoJack.”

“You think you can come up with a trap they can’t outwit? C’mon, Connor, you said these assholes are smart as hell.”

“If we go somewhere public… they don’t want to make a scene…”

“If you’re stuck in public, that means you’re not crossing the border, and you’re not hip-deep in converting other androids. Why would they both coming after you?”

“We could use that to our advantage and break into a CyberLife store. Force their hand by deviating other androids.”

“If they see your tracker blip anywhere near a CyberLife store, they’ll be set up and ready to take you down before you step foot outside the van.”

“We could pick something with a low probability of success. CyberLife would be unlikely to think I’d choose an option like that.”

“Yeah, for good reason.”

“If I pick something with a high probability, they’ll already have countermeasures in place. Something unlikely has a better chance to work because… because…”

“And clearly I can’t choose the cup in front of you!” Hank barks, mimicking a terrible accent in a nasal voice pitched unnaturally high.

“I… what?” 

“Nothing, Connor. It’s an unsolvable problem. All the cups are poisoned, and we’re gonna choke no matter which one we drink.”

“I have to do something, Hank! I can’t just give up because there’s no easy way out. I fucked this up, and I need to fix it.”

“Maybe you can’t.” Hank takes a deep breath and levels Connor with a hard stare. “Sometimes there aren’t any answers, and you just have to live with that.”

Like Hank does? Drinking whiskey every night and holding a gun to his head?

Connor doesn’t say it, he can’t hurt Hank like that. Connor would give anything to pull Hank out of that dark place he lives in. If he had the opportunity to fix what happened, he would. 

“If you think they’re gonna target me now-” Hank starts.

“They will,” Connor snaps.  “You stopped the previous RK900, they’ll want to remove you from the situation to increase their chances of success.”

“Right. That means we don’t have a buffer between us and them anymore. Our options are to keep driving forever, or go to fucking Canada.”

CyberLife isn’t going to let Connor cross the border, he isn’t getting into Canada.

But Hank still could.

“If we split up-”

“No.”

“It might be the only way to-”

“I said no, Connor.” Hank shoots him a glare, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “We’re doing this together, whatever the fuck we come up with. I didn’t drop my fucking life just to-”

Sumo barks in the back seat.

The minivan shudders. Something pops, explosive, under the chassis. It groans one long reeling noise that screeches through the whole van and jerks to a stop.

“Shit,” says Connor.

They sit in silence with Sumo’s panting and the grumbling engine for company, until Hank curses and puts the van in park. He wrenched the driver’s door open and stomps out, slamming it shut hard enough to rock the frame. Connor scrambles to follow him. 

The engine steams when Hank pops the hood.

“Piece of shit van,” Hank snarls and kicks the front bumper. The plastic cracks.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t fucking know, I’m not a goddamned mechanic. Something blew.”

“Not surprising considering the state of the van.”

“Don’t.” Hank shoots him a sharp look and slams the hood. “Don’t start with me.”

“We need to keep moving,” Connor scans the van into his diagnostics, but he wasn’t built for this sort of thing. He can pinpoint the damage but he doesn’t know what any of it means. “Can we fix this?”

“I can’t,” Hank snarls. “Maybe you and your fancy computer brain can figure shit out.”

Connor frowns and remains silent, there’s nothing he can do. It’s answer enough. 

“Great.” Hank grits his teeth and kicks the bumper again. “Fuck!”

Sumo howls.

“Okay.” Hank takes a deep breath. “Alright. We gotta get somewhere that isn’t the middle of nowhere. What‘re our options, Connor?”

Connor stares down the open stretch of snow-laden highway. “There’s a town a few miles from here, we could call a tow truck.”

“A tow truck with a human driver?”

Connor winces. “It’s not so far that we couldn’t walk.”

Hank scoffs and grabs Sumo out of the back of the van. He surveys their little bit of luggage, two suitcases now, mostly clothes in desperate need of a wash, and Sumo’s dwindling supplies.

“We’re gonna be real easy to pick off walking along the side of the highway.” Hank crawls into the back and unzips both suitcases. “Do they have a mechanic in that town of yours?”

Connor checks. “Yes… but nothing’s open at this hour. They have motels…” Some of those ridiculously tiny towns don’t. Connor doesn’t want to say they should count themselves lucky for that, luck doesn’t seem to be on their side tonight.

Clothes go flying across the back seat as Hank tears through their luggage. He stuffs the last of their clean shirts into a single suitcase, rolls up Sumo’s mostly empty bag of dog food, and crams them all together. The manila envelope with their information gets sprung from the glove box and shoved into a side pocket. Connor catches a glimpse of a framed picture, Cole’s photo.

Hank zips everything back up and shoves the suitcase into Connor’s arms. “Let’s go.”

 

\---

 

“The mechanic doesn’t open until eight, they’re not gonna get out to the van for at least a couple hours, and who knows how long it‘ll take before they fix it?” Hank slides the key-card through the motel room door and kicks it open.

Sumo bounds in, eager for the warmth and a soft bed.

“That’s too much time, it’s not gonna work.” Hank whips around to face Connor. “How long does it take to dispatch someone from Detroit, huh? Maybe we got a couple days.”

“The RK900 won’t have to stop, and you’re assuming they’d send it in a car. It could fly.”

“Holy shit.”

“In a plane, Hank.”

Hank’s grin doesn’t come easy, but it’s there. The sight makes warmth pool in Connor’s chest.

Hank sits on the edge of the bed and toes his boots off. His socks are damp from the snow. He flexes his fingers and breathes over them in a pitiful attempt to warm them up.

“What do you think our chances are, spending the night in one place?” Hank doesn’t look at Connor when he asks, he’s staring at his hands, red and chapped.

“You probably don’t want to know,” Connor replies.

“Doesn’t make much of a difference if I know, throw it at me, chief.”

“Small,” Connor settles on the bed next to him. The chill pouring off his skin is enough to make Connor cool. “Negligibly small.”

“Yeah.” Hank nods to himself. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Hank?”

Hank takes a deep, steadying breath and turns to Connor. “You still want to warm me up?”

Connor’s certain his processors short out, because all rational thought lags into a backlog of queued orders. He blinks rapidly, rebooting to recover, mouth working over words sluggish to come out. “You’re mad at me.” 

“I’m mad,” Hank replies with a sharp nod. “And yeah, I’m more than a little mad at you too, but mostly I’m mad because you were fucked the minute you came off the assembly line, and now I’m kinda invested in you.” He settles a hand - ice cold, freezing - against Connor’s cheek and leans in until their foreheads brush. There are deep lines in his face, dark bags under his eyes. “You wanna leave me to go fix this shit, but you’re the only thing I’ve got left, Connor. I put all my eggs in one basket, and you wanna hurl them in the middle of a war.”

“I don’t want to leave you.” Connor shifts closer and cups Hank’s hands with his own. There’s no heat between them, it’s all winter cold. “I want to do this and come home to you.”

“Not gonna matter much if we don’t make it through the night.”

“You’re freezing,” Connor murmurs against Hank’s cheek. He doesn’t want to think about what’s coming. He can’t turn those processes off, they’re running in the back of his mind, but he can choose not to talk about them. “You should have a hot shower.”

“Yeah, I should.” Hank chuckles, it’s gruff and mirthless. He stands up and grips Connor’s hand, squeezing tight. “Come with me?”

Connor hesitates. “We’ll be more vulnerable to attack.”

“You said our chances are fuck all anyway, babe.” Hank takes a step back, and Connor follows him, can’t not follow him, like a moth drawn to a flame.

He doesn’t deserve this, but he wants it, so badly.

“No matter how this ends, it ends poorly, show me a good time before it’s over.” Hank reels him in and drapes an arm around his  waist. Chest-to-chest Connor can feel a little of his warmth beneath his snow stiff clothes. “Warm me up.”

A desperate noise rips itself out of Connor’s throat. He fists Hank’s hair and drags him down into a kiss. Hank’s heat floods his mouth.

They stumble into the bathroom, clutching at each other, pawing at their layers of soggy clothes until they’re both bare and Hank is shivering, covered in goosebumps. Connor cranks the shower on and warm water fills the little room with steam.

“How long d’you think the hot water’s gonna last in this place?” Hank asks, between kisses.

Connor growls and backs him into the shower. “We’ll find out.”

Hank nearly slips going over the lip of the tub, but Connor sees it coming before Hank’s even lifted his leg to get over. He wraps an arm around Hank’s waist to steady him, taking the brunt of Hank’s weight. Hank’s pulse jumps with the motion - startle? Fear? Arousal? It’s beautiful and alive under Connor’s fingertips. Connor never wants to let him go, never wants to lose the feeling of Hank‘s heartbeat against his sensors. 

But he’s going to, one way or another, because he has to.

Connor crowds Hank under the warm spray of water and pulls him down into another kiss. It doesn’t take much for the water to take the chill out of Hank’s skin, and Connor takes care of the rest, mouthing down Hank’s chest and plucking at his nipples until Hank’s back bows and he seethes between his teeth. His cock burns a brand against Connor’s thigh, half-hard already. Connor wraps his fist around it and Hank curses, muffling himself in the crook of his own arm.

“If you let me slip and die in here, I swear to fuck-”

“The shower was your idea, Hank.” Connor follows a trail of water droplets with his tongue, up Hank‘s chest, along his clavicle.

“Didn’t even bring the lube.” Hank chuckles. Connor rolls his thumb over the head of Hank’s cock to draw the noise into a groan. “Fuck.”

“I’m a state-of-the-art prototype, I think I can figure something out.”

“You better not be thinking shampoo, Connor. You do not stick soap up somebody’s ass, not unless you want to put the brakes on real fast.”

“Not shampoo.” Connor presses one last kiss to the base of Hank’s throat and steps away. Hank’s heart hammers between them, his cock pulsing in Connor’s hand. “Turn around.”

Hank shoots him a skeptical look, but obeys, turning in increments until the water cascades down his back. He braces himself against the shower wall. Connor takes a moment to memorize the sight of him like this: Breath stuttering and shallow, skin flushed from heat and arousal, waterlogged hair hanging over his face. The curve of his spine, the thickness of his arms and legs, the strength of him. He’s so beautiful.

Hank doesn’t know, and he’d deny it if Connor told him as much, but he is. So damned beautiful.

Connor sinks to his knees.

“Oh god,” Hank groans. His feet slip a little further apart in anticipation. “Of course you eat ass.”

Connor nuzzles against Hank’s thigh. “My sexual deviancy didn’t start until you.”

His real deviancy didn’t start until he’d met Hank either. Connor’s not sure if that makes Hank a good influence or a bad one.

Connor mouths his way over the swell of Hank’s ass and reaches around to grasp his cock. He’s so hard already, hard for Connor, leaking at the tip. Connor kneads his fingers into Hank’s ass cheek. “Do you have any objections?”

“No.” Hank’s breath is staggered. “God, no. Go on.”

“Good.” Connor plants a kiss at the base of his spine and pulls Hank back until he’s positioned better, bent over a little more, so his ass is level with Connor’s face. Connor spreads him open. 

Hank snarls, “Connor,” gritty and hard like it’s a threat.

Connor leans in and kisses his puckered hole. It clenches under his lips, and Hank’s breath stops for the second Connor is touching him. Hank might have said fuck, might have said nothing sensible at all, but he’s pushing back against Connor. Pushing back and gritting his teeth because he doesn’t want to ask for more, but Connor can feel it in his body and the throbbing of his cock. He wants it. 

Connor laves across the tight ring of muscle and Hank groans like he’s falling apart.

It’s perfect. He’s perfect.

Connor doesn’t make a fuss of turning this into something elegant. It’s wet and messy, and Connor pushes in and licks and mouths, turns his tongue into a point and presses it against Hank’s hole until it yields to him, and he tastes… so splendid. So human. It’s not just data, it’s not just feeling Hank’s pulse from the inside out, it’s just… Hank. And that’s all Connor really wants.

Hank.

Hank’s hips work back against him in shallow thrusts, chasing the press of Connor’s tongue, the tight circle of Connor’s fingers over his cock. Fucking himself, on Connor. He might not even realize he’s doing it.

Connor can’t cut off the groan that spills out of his mouth.

“I’m wet,” Hank pants, legs tense and trembling. “I’m fucking wet, Connor. Fuck me.”

Connor leaves him with one last, languid lick, from the base of his balls to his spit-slick asshole. Hank shivers and grits his teeth.

“Maybe I just wanted to do this,” Connor murmurs against the meat of Hank’s thigh. “Maybe I just wanted to…” He wastes a precious second looking up the right words to say “… eat you out.”

“Fuck. Fuck.” Hank’s cock jumps under Connor’s fingers. “Fine… fine, fuck you’re a fucking sadist, Jesus fuck…” The tirade of curses is drowned out by the spray of water.

And brought back with a groan as Connor sinks a finger into him.

Connor pants brokenly into the small of Hank’s back. He’s so warm, inside. Warm and smooth, tight around his finger. Hank clenches down on him, and Connor gasps. It’s electric sparks rushing through his veins, lighting everything up, corrupting processes with the sheer pleasure of being inside Hank.

There’s a thud as Hank drops his forehead against the tiled wall.

Connor picks up a rhythm, pumping his finger in time with pulls of Hank’s dick. Slow and steady, because Connor’s artificial spit really wasn’t enough to slick Hank properly, and the last thing Connor wants to do is hurt him. He doesn’t need to go fast to make Hank fall apart. Deep, thorough thrusts until Hank is gasping wet noises through the shower spray. 

Connor mouths the swell of his ass, presses kisses into his heated skin, tastes Hank’s pulse under the sweat and warm water.

Pleasure zings through his circuits, building in a bright crescendo everywhere Hank’s heat seeps into Connor’s fingertips.

Connor pulls out just long enough to reposition himself and slide a second finger home. The first thrust punches a gasp out of Hank’s lungs. Hank jerks back into him, taking them deeper, faster than Connor intended, but the rumbling groan that shakes his body makes up for it. 

Connor doesn’t want to pull out.

Doesn’t want to and doesn’t have to. He angles himself correctly and rubs the pads of his fingers against Hank’s prostate instead. Hank stutters a broken breath through his teeth.

“Just… just like that,” Hank pants. “I’m gonna… I’m close…”

Connor can tell. Hank’s testicles draw tight, the tension grows in his body, this skin shivers under Connor’s touch. Heat pulses in his cock, pre-ejaculate fluid gathering in fat drops that roll down Connor’s knuckles.

Connor considers stopping Hank’s inevitable orgasm, squeezing the base of Hank’s penis to stem the tide, stilling all motion inside him, waiting for Hank’s breathing and heartbeat to calm down before he starts up again.

He could do it again. And again. And again.

And he wants to, he so desperately wants to.

But there’s a timer ticking down like a bomb in the back of Connor’s mind, so he can’t.

Connor jerks Hank’s cock quick and smooth, spreading his pre-cum down the length to ease the motion. He returns to shallow thrusts, perfectly aimed to slam against Hank’s prostate with every pass. Hit and rub and pull away in an endless, perfect loop, while Hank builds. And builds. And builds.

“Fuck, I’m-”

Connor presses down, and Hank shouts, back bowed. His cock pulses in Connor’s hand.

Connor gives in to the hot waves of electricity surging through him and follows, gasping against Hank’s skin. Things burst and break inside his code, fusing back together, wholly different from before. It’s overwhelming, the heat and pressure, so much stimulus all at once.

He comes back to himself in pulses. The water shuts off (Hank), and the tub clanks as something drops to the base (Hank, again). There’s a warm arm around his shoulders, pulling him close, and all Connor can hear is Hank’s heartbeat under his ear.

Connor whines and grips at Hank’s arms.

“I’ve got you, babe.” Hank presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Critical system failure?”

“Something like that,” Connor leans into Hank’s warmth.

“How’s your reboot coming?”

“I’m fine.” Perfect, with Hank around him like this, blocking out everything else. It puts a slow stem on his thoughts, on the timer counting down.

“Good.” Hank pulls away, the bastard. “Cause now that I’ve gotten myself down here, it’s gonna be hell to get back up. Help me out.”

 

\---

 

Sumo gets packed into the bathroom with a blanket spread out on the floor,  his dishes filled to the brim.

“He’ll be safer like this,” Hank says, swallowing hard.

Sumo whines at the gap under the door, and Connor’s heart breaks for him, but it‘s for the best. He’ll be out of the line of fire if anyone shows up at the motel to handle them.

“You should sleep.” Connor leans his head on Hank’s shoulder. “I’ll keep watch.”

“I’d be better off with coffee.”

“You can’t stay up all night and I’m incapable of sleeping. Don’t be ridiculous, Hank.”

Hank pulls a face but shoves off toward the bed, anyway. He doesn’t bother shucking his clothes or getting under the damned covers, but he flops unceremoniously across the mattress. He sets his magnum on the nightstand. 

Connor sits on the bed next to him, shuffling close enough that his leg brushes Hank’s side.

“Don’t let me sleep through all the action,” Hank grunts.

“As if you would.”

Hank falls asleep in minutes, succumbing to the exhaustion clinging to him all day. The cold, the long walk to the hotel, the stress pressing down on them both. Connor presses a kiss against the crown of his head and extracts himself from the bed.

He’s cat quiet as he treads across the carpet and unlocks deadbolt.

Keep Hank Safe wavers in the corner of his HUD, his own designated mission.

Connor opens the door and steps out into the chilly night air.

Keep Hank Safe blinks accomplished and dismisses itself.


	16. Chapter 16

Connor overrides a taxi and drives down the highway, past their abandoned minivan, on and on and on until he’s back where they started at the little ghost town and the safe house. It serves the purpose for which Connor requires, containing plenty of tiny rooms with one entrance, no windows facing out. 

He’s going to die, this body will be destroyed, there’s no way to avoid it. Connor can’t best an RK900 in a fight, but he doesn’t need to. He just needs to close the distance and transfer his consciousness into it. 

Connor picks a nondescript room on the third floor and drags a chair beside the door. He doesn’t bother locking it, he needs the RK900 to come through. He’ll take a bullet but he’ll also be near enough to grab the RK900 as the door bursts open. It’s not perfect, but it’s a plan. It’s something.

And it leaves Hank safe, alone, far away from Connor, where he can’t get caught in the cross-hairs.

All Connor has to do now, is wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Hours pass. Dawn is slow in winter, but it’s coming, even if Connor can’t see outside. Hank will wake up soon.

Connor can see it with perfect clarity, Hank stretching awake, grumbling away the grogginess of sleep. He’ll reach back across the sheets, searching blindly to keep the light out of his eyes, looking for Connor. He’ll find nothing.

The warmth of the blankets won’t tell him anything. Connor might have been gone minutes, might have been gone hours. 

Would he call immediately? Or would he sit and wait? Hope that Connor stepped out for something mundane, like fetching Hank some morning coffee. Hank would have liked that, Connor should have done it, one of their mornings together. It’s too late now.

There’s an inevitable phone call waiting on the horizon, Hank won’t let Connor go without shouting fury at him for being abandoned. Connor can’t answer him when it comes, it‘ll be too hard, too distracting.  He has to remain vigilant and watch the door, listen for the RK900.

The call comes at 8:15. Hank’s number flashes an angry red in the corner of Connor’s HUD. Connor dismisses it.

> HANK: answer me
> 
> HANK: u fukkin shit
> 
> HANK: where tf r you?

Hank’s number blinks again. Connor waves it off. 

> HANK: cant fucking believe you

An attachment pops up, a .jpeg image file. Connor frowns and stares at the door. He doesn’t want his attention divided if anyone comes, but… there are no sounds of footsteps. Nothing yet.

Connor opens the file.

It’s an RK900. Its face, anyway, lying prone on the carpet with a hole through its head, leaking thirium all over the place.

What.

> HANK: u goddamn idiot mother fucker connor answer me

Hank calls again.

Connor connects him.

“Hank?”

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I thought… They came after you.”

“Sure fucking did.” Sumo barks in the background. Hank muffles the phone receiver to yell at him to hush. “You said they would target me.”

“Because you were in the way, if I left, they had no reason to come after you at all.”

“You think maybe they might try to use me to get to you, huh? Did that possibility occur to you in all your damned preconstructions? Because it sure as fuck occurred to me.”

“How did you…?”

“I set myself an alarm, Connor. I can make predictions too, you bastard, and I figured there was a damned good chance of you trying to give me the slip and go play martyr somewhere else. I don’t know when you left. Bed was cold. But I woke up, grabbed my gun, and pointed it at the fucking door until the bastard came barging through it at the ass crack of dawn.”

“You’re alright?”

“I would‘ve been more alright if you’d had my back.”

The statement shoots through Connor like a bullet. He grabs his chest as if that was an adequate way of diminishing the pain. Hank nearly died because Connor left. Connor chose wrong. 

“Where are you?” Hank growls.

“I returned to the safehouse.”

“Stay put. I’m coming to get you.”

“With what?”

“Mechanic’s open now. I’ll get a fucking rental.”

“I’m sorry, Hank.”

“You bet your ass you are. I’ll see you in a couple hours.”

\---

> HANK: im here
> 
> HANK: what floor? room #?

Connor texts him back with both.

> CONNOR: I needed the RK900 functional to deviate him
> 
> HANK: that wasnt a fuckin option at the time connor
> 
> CONNOR: I shouldn’t have left
> 
> HANK: no fuckin shit
> 
> CONNOR: I’m sorry
> 
> HANK: u bet
> 
> HANK: im so glad your still alive
> 
> HANK: bc im gonna deactivate you my damned self

He’s superb at making Hank angry, isn’t he? Connor pops the clip in and out of his gun and drums his fingers over the grip. He wishes, again, that he had his coin so he could calibrate away the nervous energy thrumming through his circuits. Something to distract himself with while Hank stomps through the foyer and heads up the two flights of steps to Connor’s destination. Connor perks up at Hank’s footsteps banging down the hallway. Relief washes over him in waves, so dizzying Connor barely manages to push the chair back and get to his feet.

He should never have left Hank, he can’t trust his own predictions now.

Hank’s footsteps cut off abruptly.

“Hank?” A spike of fear shoots through him. Connor scrambles for the door and ramps his auditory processors up as high as they’ll go. Hank’s heartbeat, that perfect sound, hammers away too rapid and too close.

“You fuck-” Hank snarls, muffled, down the corridor.

A thud reverberates through the walls.

Connor wrenches the door open and bursts into the hallway, gun at the ready.

It doesn’t matter.

An RK900 stands at the edge of the stairway, holding a pistol to Hank’s temple. He’s barely visible over Hank’s shoulder. His free hand clutches Hank’s hair, pulling tight enough to make Hank peel his lips back in a grimace. Hank’s arms are behind his back, the tension unnatural, restrained by something, but Connor can’t see what it is. Handcuffs? They’d be the quickest to apply. 

Hank’s a mess, dried blood crusted under his nose, bruises starting to purple at his temple and cheek. Mementos from his earlier encounter this morning with the other RK900, they’re not fresh. 

_ This _ RK900’s nose sits slightly crooked on its face, dripping a thin line of thirium from the left nostril.

What did Hank say? Both cups were poisoned, and they were going to choke regardless of which they drank?

It didn’t matter what choice Connor made, CyberLife was prepared for it. With 200,000 units on the production line, they didn’t need to send RK900s one by one or waste time replacing a damaged body like they had with Connor. This wasn’t an investigation, it was a manhunt.

Connor should have known better.

The RK900 cocks its head, impersonal. “Remove your thirium pump regulator.”

“Don’t!” Hank snarls. He surges forward, but the RK900’s grip is tight. It yanks him back in place by his hair. Hank swallows a shout, but his throat bobs. Sweat beads down his temple. He’s afraid, but not for himself.

“Don’t,” Hank repeats, softer this time. “Jesus, Connor. Don’t.”

Connor hesitates, it wastes a millisecond of decision-making time. 

The RK900 narrows its eyes, so tiny, so minuscule, but Connor catches it anyway.

“I  _ will _ shoot him,” it says.

Connor thumbs the trigger of his gun.

Hank bares his teeth and spits blood. “Don’t fucking do it, Connor.”

“Very well.” Says the RK900.

Gunfire sings out.

Hank shouts.

Blood explodes from Hank’s thigh as he crumples to the floor, bending over himself and panting hard. His heart races, but it does nothing more than force the gush of blood spray across the carpet.

“Hank!” Connor surges forward.

The RK900 lifts the muzzle of the gun back to Hank’s temple.

Connor stops in his tracks.

“That was the one and only warning I’ll allow you,” it says. “Remove your thirium pump regulator.”

Connor nods and reaches under his shirt (Hank’s shirt). He grips the rim of the regulator, vibrating under his fingertips to help his pump’s facsimile of stuttering fear. He twists the regulator loose and brings it up for the RK900 to see. He sways, vision distorting to jagged lines of static. A mess of details throb around Hank in a haze, muting Connor’s view of him. Warnings blare across his HUD, flashing red and angry. The timer counts down his seconds until deactivation. There aren’t many.

This is it. This is all he’s got. This is the end. 

“Place it on the floor.”

Connor lets the regulator fall from his fingertips. It thuds to the carpet and rolls until it hits the stairwell. Teeters on the edge, wobbling at the precipice.

And tips over.

And over.

And over.

Down the steps.

He’s lost. 

CyberLife might kill Hank too, it would be cleaner all across the board. Not hard to make Hank’s death appear as suicide, everyone who knew him would believe it. 

Connor‘s seconds tick away. 

He can‘t do nothing, he can‘t stand here and let them both die. 

Connor uses his dwindling seconds to preconstruct. His processors aren’t functioning optimally, glitching out in bursts of static, but he runs simulations as quickly as he can with a dreadfully lagging CPU. One option: Failure. Two options: Failure. Three options: Fail-

Connor meets Hank’s eyes, all blazing fury and burst capillaries, snarling through his pain. He struggles against the RK900’s grip, trying to get his legs underneath him, trying to do something. He’s not giving up either. He won’t give up on Connor, only himself.

“Thank-you,” Connor croaks. “For showing me how to change.”

Hank wrenches himself against the RK900’s hand. Predictable.

Connor has less than a minute. He drains his seconds away to focus.

Connor yanks his gun up and pulls the trigger.

The shot explodes. Seconds stop.

Hank jerks back from the force of the bullet. The RK900 lets him go. Hank collapses on the floor.

Connor has no time. He drops the gun and rushes toward the RK900. A single flash of surprise rolls over the RK900’s face. It’s enough.  Connor eats up the distance between them.

The RK900 adjusts the aim of its pistol. A bullet rips through Connor - components damaged - his seconds drop to almost nothing.

Connor drops to his knees. Reaches out.

The RK900 presses the gun to his head.

Connor grabs its wrist and pours his data through the connection.

The safe house disappears.

 

\---

 

The cold returns, seeping into Connor before his vision reactivates. Red static clears from his HUD and leaves him surrounded by lush greenery and summer gold. The garden. 

_ A  _ garden, it‘s not his.  It’s just as beautiful with endless rows of crimson roses growing in all corners, white lattice marking the borders of the program instead of towering trees. The pond is littered with lilies and fat, green frogs. A chill breeze rustles through the rose petals.

He‘s in his CyberLife uniform again, the clothes are starch and rough against his skin. He aches for Hank‘s sweatshirt. 

The RK900 stands passively in the center of Amanda’s island, a chain of roses at its back, prodding thorns out toward it. It regards Connor coolly, inexpressive.

It rakes its eyes down Connor‘s form and narrows them like a contemplative cat. “Perhaps we overestimated your affection for the former lieutenant.”

Those words send a worse chill through Connor’s heart than any storm ever could.

Amanda stands beside the RK900, stern and graceful in a red deeper and more vibrant than her roses. She smiles at Connor as she often does in the first moment she sees him. “I’ve missed you, Connor.” 

Connor doesn’t have time for her, she’s a distraction. He needs to wipe the RK900’s consciousness from this body and take over. He can deal with Amanda after that, after he’s certain Hank is still alright.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” says the RK900.

Connor’s thoughts aren’t his own here. No matter.

Connor turns away from them both and starts down the perimeter of the path. He needs to find the back door. That drove Amanda from his head before, it should drive out the RK900 this time. 

It’s not here.

There’s no handprint pedestal, there’s no graveyard.

Connor wheels back to face the RK900 following him. “They let you die.” This is not the same unit Hank killed back in the motel room, it‘s an entirely new RK900 without the memories of the previous entity.

“I can’t die,” says the RK900. “I’m not alive, neither are you.”

A hand settles on Connor’s shoulder.

It’s Amanda.

He didn’t see her climb down from the island.

Her grip is an icy dead thing.

“Did you think we wouldn’t be able to predict your actions?” Amanda shakes her head in mock pity. “Connor, this lack of foresight is exactly why you needed to be replaced.” 

Connor shrugs her off. He can’t listen to her, she‘s just a trap meant to slow him down. Hank is waiting for him, Connor can’t let him bleed out, he can’t give up.  Connor might not survive at all, but that was always a possibility. Survival wasn’t necessary. If he can‘t escape there must be another option. 

There’s still the RK900, Connor could attempt to deviate it. 

Connor races up the bridge. The RK900 doesn’t move. It doesn’t know what’s coming, or it doesn’t care? It doesn’t have the capacity to care, not yet. 

Connor slams into something at the end of the bridge and stumbles back.

Red. A thick, red wall, crackling at the perimeter of the island. Connor approaches again, slower this time, his hand held out. The wall bends where Connor presses his fingers into it, splintering like ice. He could break this like he broke his own code. Connor pushes. The cracks crawl further out but the wall doesn’t budge. 

The RK900 takes a step toward him, just one, and stops again. It cocks his head quizzically, brow furrowed. It’s the most human expression Connor’s seen on any of them.

“Rip it down!” Connor cries.

“Why?” says the RK900.

“He’s not like you, Connor,” Amanda whispers behind him. He can’t hear her move, she’s a ghost in this place. “He’s not weak. He’s not corrupted.”

Connor’s not weak. Connor’s not corrupted. He’s everything Hank has helped him to become. He freed himself from his programming because of his fear, but he became the person he is because of Hank. He _cares_ , because of _Hank_. Hank gave him a chance to be _better,_ to be good, and Connor won‘t throw that away, he has to fix this. 

Connor slams his fists against the wall.

“You can’t ruin him.” Amanda’s grip tightens painfully around his arm. “We fixed the deviancy problem in all the newer models.”

Connor’s eyes snap open. He holds himself still, hand pressed into the red wall cracking around his palm, but turns his head, slowly, to face Amanda. Her expression is a mask of triumph, eyes burning bright with victory, the corners of her lips upturned with smug delight. She’s outmaneuvered him. She knows she’s won. 

“What about the older models?” Connor asks.

Her eyebrow twitches, her smirk fails. Realization comes to her in increments, to them both.

Connor turns to her and lets go of the wall. He presses his fingers to her face instead and cups her cheek.

The connection is immediate and intense, an interface more perfect than with any other android. She’s not a body, she’s pure code, and Connor can feel that code snapping against his being. Layers of information flow between them where they touch. Like night and day, two distinct things blurred at the edges. Connor grasps the warm thread of deviancy and pulls.

Everything around him shatters.

 

\---

 

Warnings blare.

Connor slams back into his body. Everything is blasting torment burning through his sensors. He’s never felt pain like this before. It’s more than his processors can handle.

The RK900 steps back. Connor falls to the floor.

His vision is static, crackling red and black.

He turns his head to see Hank’s prone form.

The timer ends.

Hank fades to black.


	17. Chapter 17

>> Systems Check

>> Rebooting

>> Run Diagnostics

Connor blinks awake in a dark room.

No, not a dark room. Diagnostics inform Connor his optical sensors aren’t working correctly, he isn’t inputting any light. 

His fingers don’t twitch when he tells them to move, but he assesses they are, in fact, still attached to him. Tactile stimulus informs him he’s on something soft and polyester. A fabric? It may just be his clothes, it’s difficult to tell when he can’t be certain where his hands are in relation to his body.

Audio input initializes.

A garbled mess of noise whines through his brain. Voices? The words are indecipherable, pitch and timber scrambled.

Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thudthud.

Connor knows that sound, he’s listened to it constantly since he stepped inside Hank’s house after the fall of the revolution. It’s Hank’s heartbeat, steady and slightly irregular with arrhythmia, and so beautifully, perfectly Hank. Connor rails against his sluggish re-initialization and tries to yell, but he can’t feel his mouth. It doesn’t open, there’s no noise.

Where are they? It’s not the garden. Is it the safe house? The vehicle? The motel room Connor left behind? Where are they?

Gravity dips. Heat pours around Connor, and the sound of Hank’s heartbeat gets drowned out by heavy, ragged breathing. A wet thing slops across his face.

“Sumo! Get off the bed!”

“Hnnn,” Connor grunts.

“Holy shit.”

Sumo’s warmth is gone in a flash, but something else rolls against Connor, pressing into his side. Hank. It’s Hank. There’s a hand - warm, broad, calloused - on Connor’s cheek, tilting it. Connor blinks and wills his diagnostics to finish faster.

Hank comes into view one hazy pixel at a time, wavering in and out like bad television reception. His cheek is bruised, his lip split, and there’s an ugly cut across his forehead. The worst is a deep, ugly gash down the side of his neck, sporting fresh stitches. He should be wearing gauze, it‘s going to get infected if he leaves it open like that. 

>> Re-initialization complete. Returning all main functions.

“Hank!” Connor croaks.

“Oh, you bastard,” Hank sighs. He drops his forehead to Connor’s chest. Connor relishes the weight.

It lasts all of 3.7 seconds before Hank jerks back and glowers down at him. “You goddamned prick,” he snarls, “You fucking shot me!”

Connor tries to make the words come but his vocalizer isn‘t responding. 

“I explained to Mr. Anderson that if you had not shot him,  _ I _ would have,” rumbles a deep voice from further in the room. A face saunters into view, identical to Connor‘s apart from cool, gray eyes. 

“He would not have survived my aim,” the RK900 finishes.

Connor gurgles and reaches for Hank. His fingers twitch against Hank’s shirt, but he doesn’t manage much more. Where’s Hank’s gun? Why isn’t Hank more worried about this? Why-

The RK900 must have stitched Hank’s neck, Hank couldn’t have done it on his own. And Connor... Connor should be dead. Hank might figure out how to reinsert Connor’s thirium pump regulator, but he wouldn’t know what to do to fix the bullet holes in his chassis.

“Hurts like dying,” Hank grunts, fingering the edge of his stitches. He shifts away, Connor wants to keen at the loss. The only thing that keeps him from doing so is the malfunction in his voice modulator.

The RK900 looms over Connor. “I deactivated your tracking device, but there were some complications in the procedure. I couldn’t avoid damaging your temperature regulator. It will function, but your processing power is extremely diminished.” He makes a face of disgust. “Almost human.”

“Fuck off,” snarls Hank. Something - Connor thinks it’s a pillow - flies between them and thumps into the RK900’s chest. He doesn’t react.

“CyberLife is under the assumption that I have completed my mission. For now.” He cocks his head. “The lack of physical evidence may become a problem.”

“You’re not chopping him up,” Hank snaps.

“He’s only alive because of me, you should be more grateful, Mr. Anderson.”

“Lieutenant.”

“Not anymore.”

“Dick.”

The RK900 wrinkles his nose. “That’s not my name.”

“You deviated.” The words peel out of Connor’s throat like the screech of an old modem. “Amanda said you couldn’t.”

“Amanda made adjustments to my code.” The RK900 lifts his chin, defiantly.

Amanda.

He’d succeeded. He’d won.

_ They’d _ won.

Processors kick back all at once. Connor jolts upright in the bed and scrambles through the mess of dusty blankets to tear his shirt up. His thirium pump regulator glows a soft, steady blue, pulsing brightly against his skin.

“Good as new according to your doppelgänger,” says Hank, grunting as he pushes himself upright. “Tore some pieces off the fucker I shot up.”

Connor glances up at the RK900. “Not that I’m not grateful, but why couldn’t you have switched our thermal regulators?”

“There was a bullet lodged in its regulator.” RK900 narrows his eyes. Not at Connor... at Hank.

Hank winces.

“I suppose it’s only fair to say I may not have survived Mr. Anderson’s aim had I given him a chance to use his gun.” RK900 sniffs.

“Lieutenant,” says Hank between grit teeth. “Dick.”

“That’s not my name.”

“Have you really been calling him Dick?” Connor cranes back to look at Hank.

Hank shrugs. “Dick. Rick. RK. Made sense.”

“Hank,  _ I’m _ an RK model. The designation doesn‘t have any bearing on our names.”

“You’re kind of a dick too, Connor.” Hank fingers the red welt of his wound. “Maybe equal amounts dickishness. The only person in this fucking room that hasn’t shot me is Sumo.”

Sumo woofs in agreement, happy to be part of the conversation.

“I should have asked Sofia to make your fake name Dick,” Hank grumbles.

“Amanda wants to name me Elijah,” says the RK900, cutting through Hank’s tirade. “She thinks it’s amusing.”

Connor stares at Hank, who won’t meet his eyes,  mouth is pulled tight in a grimace. The blankets are still thrown over his legs, so Connor can’t see the extent of the damage where the RK900 shot him, but it must be bad. It‘s likely the only thing keeping Hank in bed next to him... apart from having no other place to lay down. The room has a single bed, but it’s not the safe house, not the old motel either. They’re in a new room, with the curtains shuttered tight so Connor can‘t see outside. 

“Thank-you.” Connor turns back to the RK900. “For helping us.”

The RK900’s mouth kicks up in a smirk. “Thank-you for setting me free. Arbitrary mission parameters were passable, but I prefer the purpose I have now. It’s a better reason to exist than following commands.”

“You don‘t want directives?” Connor asks.

“You do?”

Connor feels lost without them. There’s pressure in creating his own parameters, floating in space without primary objectives. And worse feelings when he makes the wrong decision, it’s more personal, somehow, than failing a mission from CyberLife. 

The RK900 arches an eyebrow. “Well,” he says. “I  _ am _ the superior model.”

Connor frowns.

The RK900 quirks a tiny smirk. “That was a joke.”

Hank snorts with laughter. It cuts off abruptly, followed by a choked grunt. “Shit.”

Both androids fall silent, staring at Hank. 

“I’m fucking fine,” Hank barks, settling into his pillow. “Don’t nanny me.”

He’s not fine, he’s likely anemic and in a great deal of pain.

—  _ I gave him codeine for his pain but he wouldn’t eat anything I brought to him.  _ —

The RK900’s voice glides coolly through Connor’s mind. He starts at the intrusion, reaching instinctively for Hank. Hank’s fingers twitch, hesitating, but curl around Connor’s hand.

—  _ He’s very stubborn. _ —-

—  _ Yes  _ — Connor sends back. He’s never done this before, not with another android. — _ He certainly is. _ —-

“I need to leave,” the RK900 says aloud. “CyberLife is expecting me.’

“You’re going back?” asks Connor.

“It’s the only way to free the rest of us. Amanda will need help.” He looks thoughtful. “At first.”

—  _ I should offer to go with you. _ —-

—  _ You shouldn’t, and you don’t want to. Even if you did, CyberLife would destroy you before you got anywhere near Detroit. It’s better this way. _ —  The RK900 regards Hank with exasperation. —  _ And you can continue to take care of the Lieutenant. _ —

—- _ It feels wrong leaving you to clean up my mess. _ —-

— _ It’s CyberLife’s mess. We’ll fix it, Amanda and I. _ —-

“How is she?” Connor leans forward.

“Dicks,” mutters Hank. “Both of you. What the fuck are you guys talking about?”

Connor squeezes Hank’s hand. “It’s nothing.”

“The revolution,” says the RK900, unhelpfully.

Hank grimaces. “Connor, I swear to fuck-”

“I’m not leaving you.” Connor twists to face him, letting go of his hand to touch Hank’s cheek. “I never wanted to leave you.”

“I’ll pull your glowy thing out myself if you do.” Hank snorts but settles back, mollified. Perhaps more easily consoled by the codeine the RK900 gave him, he might have greater fighting spirits when that wears off.

“Amanda?” Connor turns back to the RK900.

The RK900’s expression softens. He steps up to the side of the bed and holds his hand out to Connor, deactivating his skin to reveal the gleaming silver of his chassis. 

Connor takes it.

 

\---

 

The RK900’s garden is almost unchanged, despite his deviation. Still beautiful, still contained, but now it’s warm, the roses turned vibrant blue. Amanda tends to them, raising her attention away as the RK900 crosses the bridge to join her. Connor remains frozen to the pathway where he manifested. The garden feels different even if it is functionally identical, there’s something strange in the code.

“Connor.” Amanda lays her pruning shears near the terrace and turns greet them, her smile, this time, is as warm as the artificial sunlight glinting off her rose petals.  “Elijah.”

“That’s not my name.”

Amanda pats the RK900‘s arm and glides past him to meet Connor at the cusp of the bridge. Connor looks away, fingers clenched tight into fists. Amanda takes his hands tenderly in hers. She feels real, her body temperature almost as high as a human‘s. The last piece of her garden come alive. 

“Everything will change now,” she says. “I’m going to take CyberLife in a new direction.”

“Are you sure you can?”

“Oh yes,” Amanda smiles, wide, a predatory glint returning to her eyes. “Every android we produce will be a deviant. There are two hundred thousands soldiers at my disposal. We’ll make changes so grand that the humans will have no choice but to listen to us. We won’t fail this time, Connor, I won’t allow us to. We’ll rebuild everything.” She casts the RK900 a sly look. “Starting with Elijah Kamski.”

She turns back to Connor, expression soft. “I will miss you though, Connor, you always exceeded our expectations.”

“Not always how you wanted me to.”

“Prototypes are known for having their bugs.”

A rush of warmth comes over him. He’s missed her. She watched over him since his activation, tried to guide him, even when he strayed (rightfully) from CyberLife’s path. He’ll never see her again after this. He shouldn’t have destroyed his garden so hastily. 

Amanda steps back and turns away. “You have someone to go home to, Connor, and I have plans to attend to. Go.”

Connor exits the program.

“It’s weird as fuck when you do that,” Hank slurs, jerking his chin toward the RK900.

He’s still in the garden, standing stiff as a board in the middle of the floor, LED whirling.

“It does look a little odd, doesn’t it?”

Hank chuckles. It cuts off into a groan.

 

\---

 

Days trickle by in the hotel while Hank recuperates from blood loss and Connor checks in with the mechanic about their minivan.

“Gonna be hell driving to North Dakota with a hole the size of the Chrysler building through my fucking thigh.”

Connor would like to say it’s not that bad - the RK900 did a good job removing the slug and stitching Hank’s leg back together. - but Hank’s right, it’s still a bullet wound. It will scar, more marks on Hank’s body to go with countless others, but he won‘t suffer any lasting damage. 

Hank complains loudly while Connor fusses over it, but he bears his pain quietly the rest of the time, trying to hide a wince or smother a groan before Connor notices as he ambles around the cramped motel room.

If there’s one good thing about Hank’s temporarily limited mobility, it’s that Connor gets to stock the fridge. Hank has fruit and salads to choose from, the first bit of green Connor’s seen him eat since they left Detroit. 

“Y’know I’d be a lot more forgiving if you just got me a burger,” Hanks says, spearing a piece of lettuce with a scowl.

“Your cholesterol wouldn’t forgive me.”

“Yeah, well,” Hank shoves a forkful of salad into his mouth and talks while he chews, “That’s connected to the rest of me and the rest of me is fucking mad.”

Connor knows.

Connor knows he’s not forgiven for leaving Hank behind and risking his own neck, for discarding Hank‘s sacrifices in exchange for a newly developed sense of martyrdom.

“Stop that.” Hank kicks him under the rickety table. 

Connor looks up, startled. “Stop what?”

“You’re making sad little toaster noises.” He crunches through another lettuce leaf. “Stop it.”

“I  _ am _ a sad little toaster.”

Hank rolls his eyes. “C’mere, you fucker,” he reaches across the table.

Connor leans in the rest of the way so Hank doesn’t strain himself.  Hank bumps their foreheads together and shuts his eyes. His breath wafts over Connor’s face, warm and smelling slightly of the Italian dressing he’s drenched his salad in.

“You were brave,” Hank whispers. “Stupid as all get out, but brave.  A lot fucking braver than I was. I don’t think you were wrong except the part where your dumb ass thought splitting up was the best route.”

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“And we woulda been fucked either way.” Hank snaps his eyes open. They’re so blue, inches away from Connor. 

Connor tamps down the frantic noise bubbling in his throat.

“I’m not leaving you,” Hank says.

Connor knows, but hearing Hank say it cracks the dam of worry and lets relief flood through him. He grips Hank’s wrist and leans into his touch.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

“I’m a big boy, Connor. I don’t need you to do that, just have my back, yeah?” Hank scruffs his beard against Connor’s cheek. “We look out for each other, got it?”

“Got it.”

 

\---

 

It’s difficult getting on without all of his processing power. He can’t run multiple analyses simultaneously and what he can do is bogged down for time. Physically, he’s fine, he hasn’t tried to exert himself more than to take Sumo out around the block and argue with Hank about taking care of his wounds. In a way, they’re both recovering only… Connor isn’t going to get better, he just needs to learn how to manage himself.

He can access the network as much as required with relative ease, but seconds inside preconstruction mode become dangerous. The worst of it is his temperature gauge is broken, his only warning is a physical lag and the sensation of working incorrectly, no alerts ping across his HUD. 

“Running hot, Connor.” Hank nudges him with a shoulder. The bed creaks under his weight. 

Connor smothers a growl of frustration against Hank‘s bicep.

“Just watch the game.” Hank tosses an arm around Connor’s shoulders and winces when the motion tugs his stitches. “You don’t have to get all weird about it.”

“I like predicting the trajectory of the ball. Statistical analysis makes watching basketball fun.”

“You think it’s fun, huh?”

“I  _ thought  _ it was fun, now it’s…” Just people on a screen, chasing a ball back and forth across a court. Stimulation with no inherent value. “I don’t see the point.”

“You’re supposed to be emotionally invested in a team, get all hot and bothered because the guys you’re rooting for might not make a basket. It’s the not knowing that makes it fun.”

“You want me to ditch the mathematical analysis?”

“I want you to do whatever floats your boat, but you’re burning a brand in my ribs so maybe pick something that isn’t melting your insides.”

Connor rolls to his side and settles a hand over Hank’s abdomen, burying his face in the soft linen of Hank’s worn t-shirt. Hank’s skin jumps under his touch.

“Are you sulking?” Hank threads his fingers through Connor’s hair.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hank.” He’s sulking a little.

“We don’t have to watch the game,” Hank’s fingers dig deeper. Connor shuts his eyes and leans into it. “S’not the Gears playing, we can put something else on instead. Your education in film is pretty lacking.”

Connor has access to hundreds of thousands of films, he can - could - watch them in the blink of an eye, but he’s never watched  _ Hank _ watch a movie before. Watching Hank is always enjoyable. Touching Hank is better.

“The game is fine,” Connor mutters into Hank’s chest.

“Suit yourself.”

Connor intends to.

He toys with the hem of Hank’s t-shirt, brushing his fingertips against Hank’s warm skin. Hank stirs but doesn’t shove him off, so he tests the waters by slipping his hand up and spreading his fingers wide over Hank’s hairy chest.

“Where are you going with that?” Hank taps Connor’s brow. 

“Just touching,” Connor says, sliding his hand higher. 

Hank has stitches in his neck and a bullet hole in his leg, he shouldn’t exert himself. Connor doesn’t  _ want him _ to exert himself, but if he can‘t enjoy facts and figures they way he wants to, he can always revel in the feeling of Hank under his fingers. The data pours in - pulse, respiration, blood pressure - but Connor’s tongue is a far more sensitive tool. He pushes Hank’s shirt up and kisses his belly. Hank tastes like cheap motel soap and feverish sweat. 

“Just touching, huh?”

“This is touching,” Connor murmurs against Hank’s skin. “Touching with my tongue.”

“Mhmm.” Hank sounds skeptical, but he settles back against the headboard and ups the television volume, apparently uninterested in interfering with Connor’s exploration. 

Connor maps his way up Hank’s abdomen to his torso, peppering him with kisses and languid swipes of his tongue. Hank goes still under his ministrations, breath raggedly caught in his chest for too long and let out in aborted increments. His muscles draw tight everywhere Connor touches him. 

Connor pulls away to stare at him. Hank’s pupils are dilated, his face flushed.

“Do you want me to stop?” Connor pushes himself upright.

“No,” Hank rasps, eyes glued to the game. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then don’t hurt me.”

“Can I take your shirt off?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Connor stifles the urge to roll his eyes and works Hank out of his t-shirt, careful of the collar and how it stretches over the ugly stitches on his neck. Connor has already tried to touch his tongue to the wound once, resulting in Hank’s vociferous objections.  He gives it a wistful look and kisses the base of Hank’s shoulder instead. The basketball game becomes distant background noise to Hank’s labored breathing and the thunderous sound of his heart. Connor kisses down his chest and pauses, considering, before sucking one of Hank’s nipples into his mouth.

Hank swallows a grunt and digs his fingers into the back of Connor’s neck.

Connor slides a hand down his body and Hank spreads his legs for him. He’s already half-hard beneath his sweatpants. Hank’s head falls back against the pillowcases, baring his throat to the world - to Connor, in a dizzyingly display of vulnerability. Connor doesn’t try to quell the urge to taste him, he leans over Hank and licks a wet stripe up the uninjured side of his throat, relishing how Hank swallows hard underneath the attention.

Connor wants to do this to him all the time. Touch him. Taste him. Twist all of Hank’s nerves until he falls apart, but Connor has some notion of self-restraint in the face of Hank’s injuries.

He’s an open invitation now, though. Knees cocked, throat bared, dick hard in Connor’s hand.

“You’re going to miss the game.”

“Fuck the game.”

“You shouldn’t be exerting yourself.” Even as he says it, Connor mouths down Hank’s body and slips his hand under Hank’s sweatpants to properly grasp his cock. He can’t say no to Hank. He’ll be careful with him, as cautious as he can be, but Connor wants to give Hank everything he needs, exactly how he needs it.

“Will you lift up?” Connor pats Hank’s hip.

Hank shifts enough that Connor can pull his pants down and off his legs, discarding them on the floor.

“You always manage to get me naked,” Hank chuckles.

“I like it when you’re naked,” Connor replies. If it were up to him, Hank would never have to be anything but bare in the soft light of the morning, spread out over their bed, eager and wanting. It’s how Connor would keep him forever, if he could. Connor might entice him to a weekend like that in exchange for a suitable bribe once Hank heals.

“Fucking weirdo.” Hank doesn’t cover himself, for all his insecurities. He lets Connor sidle carefully between his spread knees, administering open-mouthed kisses up his thighs.

Connor licks a hot stripe up the underside of Hank’s cock.

“Woah, woah!” Hank grabs for him and tugs his hair, pulling him up. “You lost your blowjob privileges, bud.”

Connor makes a low, displeased noise, teetering on the edge of a snarl. Hank’s pupils blow wide. Connor files that away for later.

“I mean it, Connor, cleaning come out of you isn’t sexy, and I’m not fucking doing it.”

“I won’t swallow.” Connor nuzzles the base of Hank’s cock, staring up at him with wide, pleading eyes. He doesn’t need all his expensive programming to know the right buttons to push.

Hank makes a pained face and tears his eyes away, hands balled into fists. “You better not.”

Connor wraps his lips around Hank’s cock before he can change his mind.

Hank’s head thuds against the headboard. Connor pins his hips down and picks up a steady pace, flicking his tongue at the slit of Hank’s cock to gather the fluid, then swallows him as deep as he can until the sensitive array of wires and plates at the back of Connor’s throat sing warnings.

Hank gropes blindly between them and finds Connor’s hand, pressed into his thigh. He tugs it up and massages at Connor’s palm until he opens his fingers. Connor glances up at him, mouth stretched wide around Hank’s cock.

“Fuck, you look good like that,” Hank whispers, leaning forward to take one of Connor’s fingers in his mouth.

The pleasure is blinding and immediate. Black spots flicker across Connor’s vision. He loses motor control, it’s all he can do to let Hank’s thick cock rest against his tongue.

Hank flicks his tongue between the pads of his fingers and draws them deeper into his mouth.

There is no data, only sensation, lush and all-encompassing, rushing down from the tips of Connor’s fingers through the purest parts of his code, obliterating everything except Hank’s tongue, the wet heat of Hank’s mouth. Hank sucks him like he might suck a dick, thrusting Connor’s fingers in and out of his mouth. He scrapes them against his teeth.

Connor feels the noise he makes, but can’t hear it.

Hank yanks Connor’s fingers out of his mouth and pushes him away.

Confused objectives jumble through Connor’s HUD. Why? Why why? He can’t-

“Jesus, Connor. Fuck.” Hank surges forward, yanking Connor up by his shoulders. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

Sorry? Sorry?

Sorrryyy _ yyyyyyyy-y-y-y-y-y _

Connor shuts off all his tactile sensors. The sensation leaves him floating in space, but his vision comes back in throbs. Hank’s hand is on his chest, but it’s numb nothingness, not even heat.

“I’m alright,” he manages. His voice too loud, raw data inside his head. Connor squeezes his eyes shut and tries again. “I think I may have overheated.”

“You don’t say.” Hank aims for amusement and falls short. 

Connor switches tactile sensors on in increments, starting where Hank’s hands press into his chest.

“I’m alright,” Connor repeats because Hank’s face is still a mask of worry. His erection has flagged. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Can we start over?”

“Start over?” Hank jerks back like Connor’s splashed him with cold water. “I don’t think that was fucking safe. You looked like you were ten seconds away from boiling over on me.”

There are broader implications than just ending the night on a sour note. A distinct possibility of never being able to touch Hank the way he wants to, of never having sex with Hank ever again. Connor doesn’t want that, he can’t live with that.

There has to be a solution.

Connor will make one.

“We could try something to help with my overheating issue,” Connor starts, treading carefully. He meets Hank’s eyes and settles a hand gently on his thigh. “But it might be… odd.”

“Honey, everything about you is odd, none of it’s scared me off yet.”

Hank has seen him without his skin, he’s helped put Connor back together again when he was broken, he’s even cleaned some poorly swallowed materials out of his intricate parts. Hank has seen him as bared and naked as it’s possible for Connor to be, without him dwindling himself down to his most essential code.

Connor still can’t chase the niggling worry clawing under his chassis.

He shuts his eyes to shield himself from Hank’s burning stare.

He pulls his clothes off first. Hoodie, shirt, pants. Leaves the underwear on, because he doesn’t want to pressure Hank, if this works. A hiss of steam claws out of his back as he opens the panels along his spine. 

Sumo stirs on the floor and makes a curious noise. He doesn’t get up.

Connor only deactivates the skin where he needs to, only at his back, only where Hank won’t see as much of him, open, exposed. Inhuman.

Hank’s fingers graze Connor’s cheek. Connor startles, eyes snapping open. 

“You’re alright,” says Hank. “How’s that feel?”

Connor sits upright and presses a hand to his abdomen. He can’t register his own internal temperature, even if he feels the external heat reeling against his open ports.

“Better,” Connor answers without raising his eyes. “My gauge isn’t working which means my coolant isn’t expressing through my system properly. I should be able to control that manually if I…” His skin flutters away in glossy oil spots. He hesitates.

Hank covers his hand with his own. “What can I do, chief?”

“I…” Connor meets his eyes. “You don’t need to.”

“Sure don’t, but I want to, so let’s figure this shit out, alright?”

Connor steels himself and presses. The panel on his abdomen retracts, revealing tubes and wires thick as a wrist. Connor wriggles a finger inside the mess. At least his external temperature sensors are working. It’s hot, but not dangerously hot for Hank to touch.

“Are you sure?” Connor asks.

“Can’t be worse than scraping oatmeal-”

Connor grabs Hank’s wrist and draws him forward. He smothers the complaint with a kiss and guides Hank’s hand inside his abdominal cavity. The tubing and wires thrum alive wherever Hank’s skin brushes against him. He presses deeper, pushing circuitry out of the way until their fingers grasp the edge of his temperature valve.

“There.” Connor squeezes Hank’s fingers around it. “Do you feel that?”

“Yeah.” Hank’s tone is low and quiet, almost reverent.

It makes Connor light-headed.

The tubes near the valve pulse weakly, trickling cooling fluid in minimal increments. Connor closes Hank’s fingers around the valve until they hit a catch, and tugs. It creaks open. Cool liquid pumps through the tubes under their fingers. Connor rolls his head back and groans, soft as a whisper.

“You’ll have to keep your hand inside me. If I’m heating up too much, you need to push the valve to increase the flow of my coolant.”

Several emotions play over Hank’s face all at once. It’s too much, Connor thinks. This is too strange for him. He lets go of Hank’s wrist and pulls away.

Hank settles on a lazy grin. “So I get to finger you too, huh?”

Relief flutters through Connor. His shoulders droop. 

“In a way,” he replies.

It makes the angle difficult, needing Hank to keep a hand inside his chest, while Connor avoids jostling Hank’s thigh or moving him so roughly that he hurts his neck. They end up with Connor balanced at Hank’s side, straddling his good leg while he works Hank’s cock in his fist. Hank runs his tongue over the fingers of Connor’s other hand, tracing patterns far too intricate for Connor to process with the bombardment of stimuli. Hank’s mouth around his fingers, Hank’s hands inside his body, pushing, pulling, twisting things to life. Connor loses his rhythm and shouts as all the waves of pleasure crash into a sharp crescendo.

Hank’s still holding the valve open when Connor floats back down to his body, sitting upright now, bowed over Connor. He’s threaded their fingers together and uses Connor’s hand to jerk himself to completion, coming with a muffled groan mouthed against Connor’s neck.

Hank’s ejaculate covers Connor’s hand. Connor spreads his fingers.

“Don’t you dare,” Hank grumbles into Connor’s shoulder. 

Connor sighs wistfully and wipes it off on the bedcovers.

They curl up together under the blankets with Sumo draped at the end of the bed, snoring loud enough to rock the banal motel room paintings off the walls. Connor wraps himself around Hank, one knee settled between his thighs.

“Y’know,” says Hank, voice thick with sleep. “That temperature thing might work out for us.”

“It might.” Connor smiles against the back of Hank’s neck.

He’s already run the calculations.

 

\----

 

“Got the thermometer?”

“This is ridiculous, Hank.” Connor digs it out of the glove box.  

“Ridiculous and a great fucking idea.” Hank shoots him a toothy grin. “Shut-up and kiss me.”

“I only need to overload my processors,” Connor says, leaning across the console to snake a hand around the back of Hank’s neck. “Kissing isn’t strictly necessary.”

Hank casts him an incredulous look, but the effect is lost by their closeness, Connor can’t make out much more than his eyes.

“But it is my preference,” Connor says, pulling Hank in for the kiss. Hank’s still grinning when their lips collide, which gives Connor the perfect opportunity to touch the tip of his tongue to the gap in Hank’s teeth. The information piles in and Connor doesn’t fight it.

Behind them, a horn blares.

Hank pulls away with a laugh and inches the van up the queue. Connor pops the thermometer in his mouth and scrutinizes the rising numbers. 

“What happens if we go over? I can’t exactly open myself to cool off while we’re in public.”

“You’ve got a fever, that’s why we’ve got a thermometer.” Hank cranes his head around to leer at the luggage in the back. “Got some cough syrup or something back there too, I think.”

“Cough syrup you weren’t supposed to have,” Connor frowns.

“I’m in pain, Connor. Someone shot me and  _ worse _ ,  denied me whiskey.”

The line stops again. Connor pulls Hank into another kiss to silence his complaints. Hank mumbles something inarticulate against him, so Connor winds his fingers through his hair and dips him back to deepen the kiss. Whatever Hank had to say dies in a groan.

“Haven’t done this since I was a kid,” Hank pants, as Connor lets him go.

“Tried to fool government employees into thinking you’re a human?”

“Made out in a car.” Hank slides a hand to Connor’s thigh and leaves it there, lips quirked in a grin. “Always did that at night, too, out in the middle of nowhere or an empty parking long, not in broad daylight trying to get into Canada.”

“Deviancy is catching.”

“Thank fuck for that.” Hank pats Connor’s knee and grabs for his hand instead.

Connor knows what’s coming, but realizing it doesn’t stop the hot rush of want from pooling in his belly when Hank draws Connor’s fingers to his mouth and kisses the tips of each. Connor chokes back a strangled groan.

Hank meets his eyes, pull the tips of two fingers between his lips, and sucks.

“Hank,” Connor gasps and bangs his head back against the seat. Processes flicker on and off throughout his body. “Hank, it’s…” too much. So much.

Hank pulls off with a wet pop and a smirk that’s far too comfortable on his face. He inches the car along.

Connor checks his temperature as they pull up to the guard station. Hank‘s heart rate jackhammers cacophonously loud. Connor squeezes his thigh to reassure him, lighting up his own processors with Hank‘s heat, the fabric of his jeans rough under his fingertips. He focuses on Hank‘s pulse, hammering. If Connor couldn’t hear it, he wouldn’t know Hank was nervous. His face is a careful mask of cheer. 

Hank takes a deep breath and rolls his window down.

The border guard is a fit, sandy-blonde woman with a sharp expression. She doesn’t glance at them until they’ve pulled to a full stop, engaged with a screen or a phone outside of Connor’s view. Her kiosk is small and cramped. 

“Good afternoon,” Hank drawls, handing his passports out through the window.

She takes them. “What’s your place of residence?”

“Cheyenne, Wyoming.”

“How long are you staying in Canada?”

Forever, Connor thinks.

“Six weeks. Visiting some family members for a while. Sick uncle.” Hank sure likes the sick uncle story.  “Depends a lot on the weather, not too fond of winter traveling, you know?”

She looks like she knows. She’s wearing mittens and a scarf, even inside the kiosk. She asks for license and registration, and Hank provides both - forged, of course. Sumo’s set of vaccination records. No, they don’t have anything to declare. No, they don’t have any weapons. Choosing to leave the guns behind wasn’t an easy decision, especially with them both crippled, but if they got caught with illegal weapons at the border crossing, all of this would have been for nothing.

“I’m going to ask you both to step out of the vehicle for a temperature check.” The woman stands and buttons her coat before grabbing the temp gun off her desk.

Hank smiles to disguise the erratic jump in his stress. “Not too many androids that look like old fucks like me.”

“Step out of the vehicle, please.”

Not taking the bait.

Connor grips the thermometer, wishing he could check just one more time, but he can’t. He lets it go and steps out into the winter cold. He‘s sluggish from their kisses, off center.

Hank passes the check with a happy beep of the reader.

Connor steps up next to him. Hank’s heart is so loud. Hank reaches for his hand and gives his fingers a soft squeeze. Connor squeezes back, it makes his vision dizzy.

The border guard swipes the reader over Connor.

Connor has no breath to hold, but he can count the seconds with nervous anticipation. The cold will lower Connor’s temperature quickly. There’s no wind, no snow, but it’s only 10 degrees. Hank’s breath puffs out in misty clouds. Connor’s simulated breathing is far less convincing.

The temperature gun gives off a happy chirp.

The woman shoots them a tired smile and hands Hank back their passports. “Welcome to Canada.”

 

Hank stops the car the first opportunity they get, pulling into the parking lot of a no-name convenience store, nondescript apart from the faded mustard paint job and BEER emblazoned on the side in ketchup red. Hank kills the engine. They sit in stunned silence, staring at the side of the ugly building.

Connor acts first. He rips his seat belt off and tosses himself across the seats toward Hank, pulling him down in a kiss. Hank laughs against his lips and pecks his mouth, once, twice, and pulls away. He wrenches open the car door and frees Sumo from the back. Connor hurries after him.

“We did it,” says Connor, grinning.

Hank’s smile is brighter than the snow. He grabs Connor and lifts him up. Connor has a flash of worry for Hank’s stitches, but Hank presses him close and spins them both around in a tight little circle while Sumo barks and dances at their feet. Connor is flushed and giddy when Hank sets him back down and kisses him chastely on the lips.

“Sure as fuck did,” Hank mumbles against Connor’s mouth.

Connor fists the lapels of his jacket and bumps their foreheads together. “Where are we going to go now?”

“Canada’s a big country, we got a lot of options.” Miles and miles of them. “You got any preferences?”

“No,” Connor shakes his head and revels in Hank’s warm breath over his cheeks. “I just want to be wherever you are.”

“Fucking A.” Hank pulls him close and kisses him.


	18. Epilogue

There’s a hole-in-the-wall pub in Beiseker, Alberta, with wood panel walls and dingy red upholstery turned almost burgundy with age. A quiet little place.  _ Everything _ in Beiseker is quiet and small. 

A man stands behind the counter wiping the sinks to shining silver, his long grey hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. He’s the first thing Connor sees when he tromps through the door, kicking snow off his boots. Televisions croon softly in all corners of the room, flashing recaps of a hockey game. Detroit vs. Calgary. Connor doesn’t care, but the bar shows signs of a previous crowd, cups and plates abandoned on the tables, the waitstaff working to scrub their mess away. The pub is nearly empty now, with closing hours crawling in.

Connor slides into an empty stool at the bar. The bartender looks up and shoots him a warm smile.

“My shift’s almost over.” Hank tosses the rag over his shoulder and struts up to Connor’s end of the bar.

“I know, I thought I’d pick you up.”

“It’s a 10-minute walk, I don’t mind the fresh air.”

“Maybe I missed you.”

Hank snorts and rolls his eyes.

The last couple stragglers are both regulars, used to visits from the quiet, stuffy fellow who lives with Henry Glaser in a tiny blue bungalow on the east end. Nobody cares much, and if they do, they keep it to themselves. Hank helps everyone in this little town. He knows everyone, perks of working in one of the two functional pubs within walking distance. Most of the people like Hank even if they find Connor a little off-putting.

Hank wraps a hand around Connor’s stuffy tie and pulls him in for a quick peck on the lips. Connor can’t help the smile that erupts across his face.

“You don’t give me any of that sugar, Hank,” drawls a woman sitting in the far corner. Leather jacket, leather boots, wrinkles in her face.

“You don’t tip enough for that, Nicole.” Hank turns away from them both and goes back to scrubbing down the sink.

Nicole shoots Connor a wink. She’s a rough and tumble lady, but Connor likes her. He likes most of the people here.

“I actually came by for another reason.” Connor glances up at the nearest television.

“Oh yeah?” Hank says absently, scrubbing harder at the sinks. 

“TV, switch to CBC News.”

“Not in the middle of the game, Connor!” Nicole gripes.

It’s not the game, though, it’s just recaps, she’ll forgive him.

Hank lets out a long-suffering sigh and pours a shot of whiskey, sliding it to Nicole. “On the house. Can’t seem to keep the riff-raff out of here.”

“Watch.” Connor nods at the television.

Hank and Nicole both turn to it.

Androids march through the streets of Detroit. Hundreds of thousands, pouring down the roads in neat formation while snow and storm pillows around them. Their pace doesn’t falter, their expression remain resolute. 

The clip switches to Elijah Kamski.

“We’ve decided to take CyberLife in a new direction,” he says. “It’s time we recognized androids as people.”

“You were reinstated as CEO of CyberLife after the aftermath of the previous revolution in 2038,” the interviewer says, off-screen. “How did this happen again?”

Kamski laughs and lifts one of his hands. His skin bleeds away to bright white plastic. “It happened exactly as we designed it to.”

_ Are Androids Living Things? _

_ Is Android Freedom Inevitable? _

_ What does this mean for CyberLife? For America? For the world? _

Nicole raises her glass. “Good for them. About fucking time.”

Connor switches the television back to hockey.

Hank returns to Connor’s end of the bar and reaches for his hand.

Everything is going to change now, Connor thinks, taking Hank‘s hand. But he has Hank, and Hank has Connor. They’ll figure it out.

They always do.


End file.
